“I was sick of the make-believe. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. After the dance, they went to a party. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. This child was frequently disconcerting. ’ There was a pause. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. ” She said. His apparel was sumptuous in the extreme, and such as was only worn by persons of the highest distinction. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Even the teachers were getting restless, the seniors gnawing hard at the bit as graduation teased.
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