Mrs. Courtenay sighed and sank into a chair. Nothing bored her so utterly as music,--but as it was only for 'five minutes,' she resigned herself to destiny. And Cicely, at a sign from Maryllia, went to the piano and played divinely,--wild snatches of Polish and Hungarian folk-songs, nocturnes and romances, making the instrument speak a thousand things of love and laughter, of sorrow and death,-- till the glorious rush of melody captivated some of the wanderers in the garden and brought them near the open window to listen. When she ceased, there was a little outbreak of applause, and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay rose languidly.
"Yes, very nice!" she said--"Very nice indeed! But you know, Maryllia, if you would only get one of those wonderful box things one sees advertised so much in the papers, the pianista or mutuscope or gramophone--no, I THINK it's pianola, but I'm not quite sure--you would save such a lot of study and brain-work for this poor child! And it sounds quite as well! I'm sure she could manage a gramophone thing--I mean pianista--pianola--quite nicely for you when you want any music. Couldn't you, my dear?"
And she gazed at Cicely with a bland kindliness as she put the question. Cicely's eyes sparkled with fun and satire.
"I'm sure I could!" she declared, with the utmost seriousness--"It would be delightful! Just like organ-grinding, only much more so! I should enjoy it of all things! Of course one ought NEVER to use the brain in music!"
"Not nowadays,"--said Mrs. Courtenay, with conviction--"Things have improved so much. Mechanism does everything so well. And it is SUCH a pity to use up one's vital energy in doing what one of those box- things can do better. And do you too play music?"
And she addressed herself to Adderley who happened to be standing near her. He made one of his fantastic salutes.
"Not I, madam! I am merely a writer,--one who makes rhymes and verses---"
Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay waved him away with a hand on which at least five diamond rings sparkled gorgeously.
"Oh dear! Don't come near me!" she said, with a little affected laugh--"I simply HATE poetry! I'm so sorry you write it! I can't think why you do. Do you like it?--or are you doing it for somebody because you must?"
Julian smiled, and ran his fingers through his hair, sticking it up rather on end, much to Mrs. Courtenay's abhorrence.
"I like it more than anything else in the world!" he said. "I'm doing it quite for myself, and for nobody else."