The souls of the sons of the Father-land were
beginning to warm.
"Friend Beratinsky," said the anxious-hearted albino, "perhaps you know
that many years ago I knew the mother of Natalie Lind; she was a
neighbor--a companion--of mine: and I am interested in the little one. A
young girl sometimes has need of friends. Now, you are in a position--"
"Friend Calabressa, you may save your breath," said the other, coldly.
"The young lady might have had my friendship if she had chosen. She did
not choose. I suppose she is old enough--and proud enough--to choose her
own friends. Yes, yes, friend Calabressa, I have heard. But we will say
nothing more: now listen to this comical fellow."
Calabressa was not thinking of the young Englishman who now sat down at
the piano; a strange suspicion was beginning to fill his mind. Was it
possible, he began inwardly to ask, that Vincent Beratinsky had himself
aspired to marry the beautiful Hungarian girl?
This good-looking young English fellow, with a gravity equal to that of
the sham showman, explained to his audience that he was composing an
operetta, of which he would give them a few passages.
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