Zalhambra was a artist. His was the star act on each bill. He was undeniably a genius; it needed but a few bars of fortissimo plus to realize that he was a of the first rank. When he played a Rag the audience shouted with delight; but when he sprinkled torrential cadenzas through the dizzying syncopation, like some giant tossing meteors into a handful of fire-crackers, something like an electric shock stirred his hearers.
He sat by the table in his dressing-room with angry storm-swept . He had been capturing loud plaudits with his rag-time, until with success, he swept into a of music by Moskowski. The applause died away; two ladies in the front row began chatting. The artist jumped from the piano-stool, and shouting “Pigs!” raced from the platform.
For five hundred dollars a week he had to the admiring vaudeville audience; but once let the artist lay bare his soul in real music and whispering reaches his ear. But there was no use complaining, no one could understand his disgust.
“Ugh! Confound their , I’ll make them listen yet to something else than rag.”
In the midst of these reflections, the trombone player of the orchestra came to him.
“Come home to dinner with me, Mr. Zalhambra, you’ll p’raps find some folks there that will appreciate the dope you hand out.”
The disgusted artist got up and with a huge hand wiped his handkerchief across his brow. He was short and very thick set, with prominent forehead, black eyes, coarse nose, thick red lips.
“Thank you Mr. Newman, you’re a prince.”
In his overcoat Mr. Zalhambra seemed to fill the as Mrs. Newman greeted him. A moment’s private talk and the hostess understood the situation. From the drawing-room a of childish laughter reached their ears.
“Didn’t know you had a family, Mr. Newman.”
“Oh that is a little girl visiting us. My wife’s cousin is spending a week in Calgary and has brought an bunch of Alberta sage-brush with her.”
School having been closed a week for repairs Miss Gordon had brought Betty to the shining city of her childish dreams.
Everything at the dinner table was in keeping to Betty’s eyes, from the china cups to the dainty blown bubbles of confection served with ice-cream; all so fragile that even one of her small brown fingers might crush them. She laughed as she thought of the effect, should Moses appear. The ices and the angel cake and the kisses of whiteof-egg confirmed in her mind the suspicion that her wonderful holiday was a dream. “So your name is Betty Wopp?”
Betty gazed shyly at her inquisitor. Her brown eyes sparkled with the adventure of meeting a real live piannerist, as she called him. Dinner was over and Mr. Zalhambra stood before the fire in the drawing-room grate. Stooping to warm his large white hands over the flame, his hypnotic eyes reflected strangely the glow of the fire. He watched Nell Gordon as she sat stroking the flowing fair tresses of Betty.
She was dressed in a simple gown the color that the sky takes just before the stars come out, blue. Her red lips were curved in a smile, and her eyes with their black curling were full of the joy of life. Betty’s verdict, although by an interrogation point, had been correct when she first put the question to Moses, “Aint our new teacher lovely with her shinin’ blue eyes?”
Mr. Zalhambra&............