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On the contrary, the
meeting was exceedingly demure, almost dull; for a German music
professor, seated at the piano on the platform, was playing one of his
own compositions, which, however beautiful, was of considerable length;
and his audience had relapsed into half-hushed conversation over their
light cigars and tall glasses of Bairisch.
Beratinsky had to come along to the entrance-hall to enter the names of
his visitors in a book. He was a little man, somewhat corpulent, with
bushy black eyebrows, intensely black eyes, and black closely-cropped
beard. The head was rather handsome; the figure not.
"Ah, Calabressa, you have come alive again!" he said, speaking in pretty
fair Italian. "We heard you were in London. What is it?"
The last phrase was uttered in a low voice, though there was no
by-stander. But Calabressa, with a lofty gesture, replied,
"My friend, we are not always on commissions. Sometimes we have a little
liberty--a little money--a notion in our head. And if one cannot exactly
travel _en prince_, _n'importe!_ we have our little excursion.


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