But Edith toiled considerably
with her fingering, and blurred the keen
edges of each swift phrase by her indistinct ar-
ticulation. And still there was a sufficiently
ardent intention in her play to save it from being
a failure. She made a gesture of disgust
when she had finished, shut the book, and let
her hands drop crosswise in her lap.
"I only wanted to give you a proof of my incapacity,"
she said, turning her large luminous gaze
upon her instructor, "in order to make
you duly appreciate what you have undertaken.
Now, tell me truly and honestly,
are you not discouraged?"
"Not by any means," replied he, while the
rapture of her presence rippled through his
nerves, "you have fire enough in you to make
an admirable musician. But your fingers, as
yet, refuse to carry out your fine intentions.
They only need discipline."
"And do you suppose you can discipline
them? They are a fearfully obstinate set, and
cause me infinite mortification."
"Would you allow me to look at your hand?"
She raised her right hand, and with a sort of
impulsive heedlessness let it drop into his. An
exclamation of surprise escaped him.
`{`}If you will pardon me," he said, "it is a
superb hand--a hand capable of performing mira-
cles--musical miracles I mean. Only look here"
--(and he drew the fore and second fingers apart)
--"so firmly set in the joint and still so flexible.
I doubt if Liszt himself can boast a finer row
of fingers. Your hands will surely not prevent
you from becoming a second Von Bulow, which to
my mind means a good deal more than a second Liszt.
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