They are their mother’s sons. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. Everybody seemed greatly concerned about the sincerity of Tolstoy. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. You don’t deserve it, but he does. The man asked twelve guineas, but after a little bargaining, he came down to ten. “Generally gets here about seven.
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