The name of the theatre reminded him of Lizzie Baker, and he compared the pale, refined face of the bar girl with the over-coloured woman-- his hostess. He had not seen Lizzie for a long time. Why had he not gone to the bar room the last time he was in London?

"You have not answered me--would you like to go to the Gaiety?"

"I am sure I beg your pardon," and then, in a sudden confusion of memories and desires, he said: "I don't know that I care much about going to the theatre. You are not feeling well."

"My neuralgia is almost all gone. There's nothing like champagne for it. Hardwick, Mr. Escott will take some more champagne."

There were engravings after Burne Jones and Rossetti on the walls, and Frank stopped to look at them as he followed Lady Seveley upstairs.

She went straight to the piano.

"Are you fond of music?" she said.

"Yes; there is nothing I like more than fiddling at the piano."

"Then do play something."

"Oh, no, not for worlds. I only strum, I don't know my notes. I strum on the piano as I strum on the violin."

"Do you play the violin?"

"I can't call it playing, I was never taught."

"How did you learn, then? It is a most difficult instrument; I couldn't get on with it at all; I will get mine out if you will play something."

"If you promise not to laugh, I will try, but I a.s.sure you I know nothing about it. I borrowed a violin once, and I taught myself to play a tune; then I bought a violin, and I amuse myself when I am alone."

"How very clever of you. There, you will find it under the piano behind that music; do play something, it will be so good of you."

"What shall I play?"

"Anything you like."

Frank had no knowledge of the instrument, but his ear was exquisitely just and appreciative; his artistic desire was febrile and foolish, but you thought less of this in his music than in his painting and poetry. His soul went out in the strain of melody sentimentally; and it leaned him in varying and beautiful att.i.tudes. The sweeping, music- evoking arm was beautiful to behold, and the music seemed to cry for love; all about him was shadow; only the light fell on the long throat, so like a fruit to the eye; the charm was enervating and nervous. Helen looked at him again, and shuddering, she rose from the piano.

"What did you break off like that for? Was I playing so badly?"

"No, no--come and sit down here, come and sit by me. I want you to talk to me." She stretched herself in a low wicker chair by the open window. There was a church opposite, the painted panes were now full of mitre and alb, and the vague tumult of the service came in contrast with the summer murmur of London and the light of the evening skies.

The woman's body moved beneath the silk, and the faint odour of her person dilated the nostrils of the young man. "Talk to me."

"I don't know what to talk to you about. You would not care for my conversation any more than you do for my music--one is as bad as the other."

"No, pray--I a.s.sure you--I would not have you think that, no." Helen made a movement as if she were going to lay her hand on his arm; checking herself, she said: "I do not think your playing bad; on the contrary, perhaps I think it too good. How shall I explain? There are times when I cannot bear music; the pleasure it brings is too near, too intense, too near to pain; and that 'Chanson d'Eglise' seems to bear away your very brain; you play it with such fervour, on the violin each phrase tears the soul."

"But it is so religious."

"Yes, that is just it; no sen--no; well, there is no other word; no sensuality is so terrible as religious sensuality."

"I don't know what you mean. I can understand any one saying that Offenbach is sensual, but I don't see how the term can be applied to a hymn."

"Perhaps not to a hymn, although--but 'La Chanson d'Eglise' is not a hymn."

Her arm hung along the chair, the flesh showing through the silk as soft as a flower. He might take it in his hands and bear it to his lips and kiss it; he might lean and loll and kiss her. He wondered if he might dare it; but her air of ladyhood was so marked that it seemed impossible that she would not resent. He could not quite realise what her looks and words would be afterwards.

"I do not wish to flatter you, but I think you play beautifully. I do not mean to say that I have never heard any one play the violin better--that would be ridiculous. Your playing is full of emotion.

That lovely pa.s.sage thrilled me; I do not know why, nor can I exactly explain my feeling--nerves perhaps. Now I come to think of it I am ashamed. It was the summer evening, the perfume of those flowers; it was--" Helen fixed her eyes on Frank, as if she would like to say, "It was you." With a sigh she said: "It was the music." Then as if she feared she was showing too plainly what was pa.s.sing in her mind, she said: "But it is nearly nine o'clock. Perhaps you would like to go to the theatre, the ticket for the box is on the table. I should not be more than a few minutes changing my dress. Would you like to go?"

"I don't much mind, just as you like. I heard that the new burlesque was very amusing."

"Then let us go."

Both regretted their words; and, embarra.s.sed, each waited for the other to say No, let us stay here, it is far sweeter here. But it was difficult to draw back now without avowal. Helen had rung for her maid. She put on a white satin. Her opera cloak was edged with deep soft fur, and she came into the room putting on her long tan gloves.

"Were you ever in love?" Helen asked, and she leaned back behind the curtain of the box out of sight of the audience.

"I suppose I have been in love; but why do you ask?"

"It just occurred to me."

"I have never been in love with a ballet girl, if you mean that."

In blue tights and symmetrical rows the legs of the chorus ladies were arranged about the stage; the low comedians cracked jokes close to the footlights; the stalls laughed, the pit applauded.

"Haven't you? Is that really so? I shouldn't think it would be nice.

And yet, if all we hear is true, young men do make love to low women; I'm not speaking now of ballet girls, but of cooks and housemaids. A lady, a friend of mine, cannot keep a housemaid under fifty in her house on account of her son, and she sent him to Eton."

"Yes, I know; I have heard of such things, but I never could understand."

"I am glad. But you say you have been in love. Tell me all about it. I want to know. What was she like? Was she fair or dark?"

"Fair. She used to wear a Gainsborough hat."

"Did you like those great hats?"

"I did on her."

"I suppose she was tall, then."

"No, she was short."

"Then I don't see how she would wear a Gainsborough hat."

"She did, and looked exquisite in it too."

"I suppose you were very much in love with her?"

"Yes; we were engaged, and going to be married."

"Why was it broken off?"