daughters would stand out with an artificial
attraction, from the force of contrast. Noble—
zealous—almost chivalrous commander! What
she suffered in the way of austerities—for cane
chairs, affording rude and imperfect support,
were brought in, to economise space—will never
be known. If holding out her poor arm day and
night, and keeping her fingers closed till the
nails grew through the palms—according to the
Brahmin practice—could have helped forward her
mission, she would have done it cheerfully. She
did not know Lord Putnenham, but she soon
"reached" him; and though the girls could move
their ivory keys in the same rude way that they
had learned the "dumb-bell" practice and the
"pole" exercise at Madame Cartier's, and the
graceful handling of the mallet—still they had
qualified sufficiently, and could be rapturous in
musical praise without falling into blunders.

On a certain second Thursday all the world
was there. For weeks before, the Putnenham
head, well to one side, had whispered, and hinted,
and shrugged, of a new artist that he was bringing
out: "A young Hungarian fellow, by Jove;
heard him last summer, in a com-mon cabaret
at Prague, absolutely a Com-mon cabaret.
I never heard 'Tone' before. A very unassuming
young fellow. And I have got him to come to
England. He will coin. He will put them all
out—Sainton and the whole gang. It was the
merest chance I just turned in there. Otherwise,
he would have been fiddling away to Boors
and Beer, for the rest of his life. I think I know
what Tone is; and I say distinctly, Tone has
never been heard until now!"

As Lord Putnenham spoke thus at his own
drawing-room, a faint echo from behind said,
softly: "Tone never been heard till now!" And
the registered owner of the echo was Vasi, a
musical aide-de-camp on his staff. Vasi was
professional, and a sort of Italian Englishman, who
was the real chain that bound the musical lord
to the actual professional world. He had what
he called musical "circles" of his own, where
there was genuine music provided, and genuine
music paid for; and Lord Putnenham he found
useful as a fine ground where he could pick up
fashionable subscribers. A melodious duke or
two, an harmonious earl, had been seen moving
their heads with accurate beat, in time to the
lively rhythm of an "Allegro Vivace," the
Promised Land coming into sight after months of
wandering in sterile "Adagios."

Lord Putnenham had far more ladies than men
coming to have the torture applied. Men did
not suffer the "Little Ease" so cheerfully. They
were restless. Once, indeed, three ill-conditioned
"cavalry fellows," who had got shut hopelessly
in the heart of the cane chairs, and not being
trained to habits of restraint, rose at the end of
a "maestoso," and rudely and loudly and
conspicuously forced their way out through the
company, causing great confusion. One was
heard at the door using what Lord Putnenham
called "a ribald expression," and which sounded
in the key of "utter rot!" "From that
moment," said Lord Putnenham, "I have made it
a rule never to ask any of those soldier people."

"Won't you have an Analysis, Lady Laura?"
said Lord Putnenham, handing her one. "We
have a 'rich treat' to-night. Only one daughter,
I declare! Now, now!"

"We knew," said Lady Laura, "how precious
space was to-night. We left poor Alicia Mary
whose passion is music. We shall get no seat,
my dear" (this aside to Blanche), "if you don't
move on."

The place looked like the Tuileries Gardens,
there were so many cane chairs. It was crowded.
Major Carter had, somehow, managed to "get"
to the party, by clambering with infinite pains
and heat and difficulty up into a tree. Still
he was there among the leaves and branches
like the rest of the company. The fashionable
paper had his name, also that of Young Brett,
and of Captain and Mrs. Fermor. Miss Manuel
had merely said to the noble host: "You must
give me a few blank cards for those I like," and
a whole sheaf had arrived.

Mrs. Fermor had welcomed this promised
treat with delight. She enjoyed music, and even
the homily-like classical music. "Oh, Charles,"
she said, "how kind of her, how charming, how
we shall enjoy it."

Fermor was still icy, and had plans of his own
for that night. "I think you had better not go.
It is really too great a tax upon a stranger. We
could scarcely go upon such an invitation. If
you like to go yourself with Miss Manuel——"

"O no, no. And you think so? But," she
added, a little quickly, and her cheeks beginning
to glow, "I suppose the same argument will
apply to us both?"

"Not at all," said he, colouring too. "You
don't quite follow me."

This looked like the beginning of the cold
skirmishings which lead to incompatibility. Mrs.
Fermor went to her room, ready to cry like a
child, or like a girl, as she was. But they both
went after all. Grim Mr. Carlay came stalking
down from his rooms on the stairs: he someway
heard weeping, and appeared before Fermor in
his study. The metal in his face seemed to have
assumed a greater tightness and density. There
was an air and manner about him that was
irresistible. His remonstrances—for they were only
remonstrances—seemed to be edicts. They went
together; but Fermor went chafing, as though
he had been a free man chained to a convict,
whom he must take with him.

When they got there the concert had begun.
They had arrived at the "Grand Posthumous
Quatuor in E minor," which was being
interpreted by these four artists:

Ragwitz Bêla
Krowski,
Smart (alto),
and M. Piletti (cello).

Ragwitz Bêla was the young violinist whom
the host had discovered in the "pothouse."