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VIII
THE sun was high in the heavens when the violinist awoke. A great weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn.
A messenger brought him this note:
My Dear Signor Diotti—I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven. Sincerely,
Mildred Wallace.
The messenger returned with this reply:
My Dear Miss Wallace—I will call at three to-day.
Gratefully,
Angelo Diotti.
Angelo Diotti.
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