And here he was to-day, the possessor of millions, a beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a wanderer from place to place.
The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the memories which it would arouse would be too bitter....

The shade of Beethoven touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin.

But he was thinking only of his loneliness, and the marvelous touch of the hands which evoked the great spirits was lost upon him.
Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners.

He had still much good humor to recover.

He pulled at his lips, and wondered from time to time what was going on in Fitzgerald's head.