coupled with the host's anxiety for a little quiet
talk over the wine and the guest's obstinate
resolution not to sit down again at the table,
revived in my memory the request which Sir
Percival had vainly addressed to his friend, earlier
in the day, to come out of the library and speak
to him. The Count had deferred granting that
private interview, when it was first asked for in
the afternoon, and had again deferred granting
it, when it was a second time asked for at the
dinner-table. Whatever the coming subject of
discussion between them might be, it was clearly
an important subject in Sir Percival's estimation
—and perhaps (judging from his evident reluctance
to approach it), a dangerous subject as well,
in the estimation of the Count.

These considerations occurred to me while
we were passing from the dining-room to the
drawing-room. Sir Percival's angry commentary
on his friend's desertion of him had not
produced the slightest effect. The Count
obstinately accompanied us to the tea-table—
waited a minute or two in the room—then went
out into the hall and returned with the post-bag
in his hands. It was then eight o'clock—the
hour at which the letters were always despatched
from Blackwater Park.

"Have you any letter for the post, Miss
Halcombe?" he asked, approaching me, with the
bag.

I saw Madame Fosco, who was making the
tea, pause, with the sugar-tongs in her hand, to
listen for my answer.

"No, Count, thank you. No letters
today."

He gave the bag to the servant, who was
then in the room; sat down at the piano
and played the air of the lively Neapolitan
street-song, "La mia Carolina," twice over. His
wife, who was usually the most deliberate of
women in all her movements, made the tea as
quickly as I could have made it myself—finished
her own cup in two minutes—and quietly glided
out of the room.

I rose to follow her example—partly because
I suspected her of attempting some treachery
up-stairs with Laura; partly, because I was
resolved not to remain alone in the same room
with her husband.

Before I could get to the door, the Count
stopped me, by a request for a cup of tea. I
gave him the cup of tea; and tried a second
time to get away. He stopped me again—this
time, by going back to the piano, and suddenly
appealing to me on a musical question in which
he declared that the honour of his country was
concerned.

I vainly pleaded my own total ignorance of
music, and total want of taste in that direction.
He only appealed to me again with a vehemence
which set all further protest on my part at
defiance. "The English and the Germans (he
indignantly declared) were always reviling the
Italians for their inability to cultivate the
higher kinds of music. We were perpetually
talking of our Oratorios; and they were
perpetually talking of their Symphonies. Did
we forget and did they forget his immortal
friend and countryman, Rossini? What was
"Moses in Egypt," but a sublime oratorio,
which was acted on the stage, instead of being
coldly sung in a concert-room? What was
the overture to Guillaume Tell, but a
symphony under another name? Had I heard
"Moses in Egypt"? Would I listen to this, and
this, and this, and say if anything more sublimely
sacred and grand had ever been composed
by mortal man?"—And, without waiting for a
word of assent or dissent on my part, looking
me hard in the face all the time, he began
thundering on the piano, and singing to it with loud
and lofty enthusiasm; only interrupting himself,
at intervals, to announce to me fiercely the
titles of the different pieces of music: "Chorus
of Egyptians, in the Plague of Darkness, Miss
Halcombe!"—"Recitativo of Moses, with the
tables of the Law."—"Prayer of Israelites, at
the passage of the Red Sea. Aha! Aha! Is
that sacred? is that sublime?" The piano
trembled under his powerful hands; and the
teacups on the table rattled, as his big bass
voice thundered out the notes, and his heavy
foot beat time on the floor.

There was something horrible—something
fierce and devilish, in the outburst of his delight
at his own singing and playing, and in the
triumph with which he watched its effect upon me,
as I shrank nearer and nearer to the door. I
was released, at last, not by my own efforts, but
by Sir Percival's interposition. He opened the
dining-room door, and called out angrily to
know what "that infernal noise" meant. The
Count instantly got up from the piano. "Ah!
if Percival is coming," he said, "harmony and
melody are both at an end. The Muse of Music,
Miss Halcombe, deserts us in dismay; and I,
the fat old minstrel, exhale the rest of my
enthusiasm in the open air!" He stalked out into
the verandah, put his hands in his pockets, and
resumed the "Recitativo of Moses," sotto voce,
in the garden.

I heard Sir Percival call after him, from the
dining-room window. But he took no notice:
he seemed determined not to hear. That long-
deferred quiet talk between them was still to be
put off, was still to wait for the Count's absolute
will and pleasure.

He had detained me in the drawing-room
nearly half an hour from the time when his wife
left us. Where had she been, and what had she
been doing in that interval?

I went up-stairs to ascertain, but I made no
discoveries; and when I questioned Laura, I
found that she had not heard anything.
Nobody had disturbed her—no faint rustling of
the silk dress had been audible, either in the
ante-room or in the passage.

It was, then, twenty minutes to nine. After
going to my room to get my journal, I returned,
and sat with Laura; sometimes writing,
sometimes stopping to talk with her. Nobody came
near us, and nothing happened. We remained
together till ten o'clock. I then rose; said my
last cheering words; and wished her good night.