gentle, a sedative hand upon his sleeve.

"Son," she said, with an edge of authority even behind her smile, "don't
holler at me!"

He grasped her hand with his two and, immediately quiet, lay a close
string of kisses along it.

"Mamma," he said, kissing again and again into the palm, "mamma--mamma."

"I know, son; it's nerves!"

"They eat me, ma. Feel--I'm like ice! I didn't mean it; you know I
didn't mean it!"

"My baby," she said, "my wonderful boy, it's like I can never get used
to the wonder of having you. The greatest one of them all should be
mine--a plain woman's like mine!"

He teased her, eager to conciliate and to ride down his own state of
quivering.

"Now, ma--now--now--don't forget Rimsky!"

"Rimsky! A man three times your age who was playing concerts before you
was born! Is that a comparison? From your clippings-books I can show
Rimsky who the world considers the greatest violinist. Rimsky he
rubs into me!"

"All right, then, the press-clippings, but did Elsass, the greatest