WHEN the last lady had disappeared, and the Earl, takinghis place at the head of the table, had issued the military order `Gentlemen!Close up the ranks, if you please!' and when, in obedience to his command,we had gathered ourselves compactly round him, the pompous man gave a deepsigh of relief, filled his glass to the brim, pushed on the wine, and beganone of his favourite orations. `They are charming, no doubt! Charming,but very frivolous. They drag us down, so to speak, to a lower level. They--'

`Do not all pronouns require antecedent nouns?' the Earlgently enquired.

`Pardon me,' said the pompous man, with lofty condescension.`I had overlooked the noun. The ladies. We regret their absence. yet weconsole ourselves. Thought is free. With them, we are limited to trivialtopics--Art, Literature, Politics, and so forth. One can bear to discusssuch paltry matters with a lady. But no man, in his senses--' (he lookedsternly round the table, as if defying contradiction) `--ever yet discussedWINE with a lady!' He sipped his glass of port, leaned back in his chair,and slowly raised it up to his eye, so as to look through it at the lamp.`The vintage, my Lord?' he enquired, glancing at his host.

The Earl named the date.

`So I had supposed. But one likes to be certain. The tintis, perhaps, slightly pale. But the body is unquestionable. And as forthe bouquet--'

Ah, that magic Bouquet! How vividly that magic word recalledthe scene! The little beggar boy turning his somersault in the road--thesweet little crippled maiden in my arms--the mysterious evanescent nursemaid--allrushed tumultuously into my mind, like the creatures of a dream: and throughthis mental haze there still boomed on, like the tolling of a bell, thesolemn voice of the great connoisseur of WINE!

Even his utterances had taken on themselves a strangeand dream-like form. `No,' he resumed--and why is it, I pause to ask, that,in taking up the broken thread of a dialogue, one always begins with thischeerless monosyllable? After much anxious thought, I have come to theconclusion that the object in view is the same as that of the schoolboy,when the sum he is working has got into a hopeless muddle, and when indespair he takes the sponge, washes it all out, and begins again. Justin the same way the bewildered orator, by the simple process of denyingeverything that has been hitherto asserted, makes a clean sweep of thewhole discussion, and can `start fair' with a fresh theory. `No,' he resumed:`there's nothing like cherry-jam, after all. That's what I say!'

`Not for all qualities!' an eager little man shrilly interposed.`For richness of general tone I don't say that it has a rival. But fordelicacy of modulation-- for what one may call the "harmonics" of flavour--giveme good old raspberry-jam!'

`Allow me one word!' The fat red-faced man, quite hoarsewith excitement, broke into the dialogue. `It's too important a questionto be settled by Amateurs! I can give you the views of a Professional--perhapsthe most experienced jam-taster now living. Why, I've known him fix theage of strawberry-jam, to a day--and we all know what a difficult jam itis to give a date to--on a single tasting! Well, I put to him the veryquestion you are discussing. His words were "cherry-jam is best, for merechiaroscuro of flavour: raspberry-jam lends itself best to those resolveddiscords that linger so lovingly on the tongue: but, for rapturous utternessof saccharine perfection, it's apricot-jam first and the rest nowhere!"That was well put, wasn't it?'

`Consummately put!' shrieked the eager little man.

`I know your friend well,' said the pompous man. `As ajam-taster, he has no rival! Yet I scarcely think--'

But here the discussion became general: and his wordswere lost in a confused medley of names, every guest sounding the praisesof his own favourite jam. At length, through the din, our host's voicemade itself heard. `Let us join the ladies!' These words seemed to recallme to waking life, and I felt sure that, for the last few minutes, I hadrelapsed into the `eerie' state.

`A strange dream!' I said to myself as we trooped upstairs.`Grown men discussing, as seriously as if they were matters of life anddeath, the hopelessly trivial details of mere delicacies, that appeal tono higher human function than the nerves of the tongue and palate! Whata humiliating spectacle such a discussion would be in waking life!'

When, on our way to the drawing-room, I received fromthe housekeeper my little friends, clad in the daintiest of evening costumes,and looking, in the flush of expectant delight, more radiantly beautifulthan I had ever seen them before, I felt no shock of surprise, but acceptedthe fact with the same unreasoning apathy with which one meets the eventsof a dream, and was merely conscious of a vague anxiety as to how theywould acquit themselves in so novel a scene--forgetting that Court-lifein Outland was as good training as they could need for Society in the moresubstantial world.

It would be best, I thought, to introduce them as soonas possible to some good-natured lady-guest, and I selected the young ladywhose piano-forte-playing had been so much talked of. `I am sure you likechildren,' I said. `May I introduce two little friends of mine? This isSylvie; and this is Bruno.'

The young lady kissed Sylvie very graciously. She wouldhave done the same for Bruno, but he hastily drew back out of reach. `Theirfaces are new to me,' she said. `Where do you come from, my dear?'

I had not anticipated so inconvenient a question; andfearing that it might embarrass Sylvie, I answered for her. `They comefrom some distance. They are only here just for this one evening.'

`How far have you come, dear?' the young lady persisted.

Sylvie looked puzzled. `A mile or two, I think,' she saiddoubtfully.

`A mile or three,' said Bruno.

`You shouldn't say "a mile or three",' Sylvie correctedhim.

The young lady nodded approval. `Sylvie's quite right.It isn't usual to say "a mile or three".'

`It would be usual--if we said it often enough,' saidBruno.

It was the young lady's turn to look puzzled now. `He'svery quick, for his age!' she murmured. `You're not more than seven, areyou, dear?' she added aloud.

`I'm not so many as that,' said Bruno. `I'm one. Sylvie'sone. Sylvie and me is two. Sylvie taught me to count.'

`Oh, I wasn't counting you, you know!' the young ladylaughingly replied.

`Hasn't oo learnt to count?' said Bruno.

The young lady bit her lip. `Dear! What embarrassing questionshe does ask!' she said in a half-audible `aside'.

`Bruno, you shouldn't!' Sylvie said reprovingly.

`Shouldn't what?' said Bruno.

`You shouldn't ask--that sort of questions.'

`What sort of questions?' Bruno mischievously persisted.

`What she told you not,' Sylvie replied, with a shy glanceat the young lady, and losing all sense of grammar in her confusion.

`Oo ca'n't pronounce it!' Bruno triumphantly cried. Andhe turned to the young lady, for sympathy in his victory. `I knewed shecouldn't pronounce "umbrellasting"!'

The young lady thought it best to return to the arithmeticalproblem. `When I asked if you were seven, you know, I didn't mean "howmany children?" I meant "how many years--" '

`Only got two ears,' said Bruno. `Nobody's got seven ears.'

`And you belong to this little girl?' the young lady continued,skilfully evading the anatomical problem.

`No I doosn't belong to her!' said Bruno. `Sylvie belongsto me!' And he clasped his arms round her as he added `She are my verymine!'

`And, do you know,' said the young lady, `I've a littlesister at home, exactly like your sister? I'm sure they'd love each other.'

`They'd be very extremely useful to each other,' Brunosaid, thoughtfully. `And they wouldn't want no looking-glasses to brushtheir hair wiz.'

`Why not, my child?'

`Why, each one would do for the other one's looking-glassa-course!' cried Bruno.

But here Lady Muriel, who had been standing by, listeningto this bewildering dialogue, interrupted it to ask if the young lady wouldfavour us with some music; and the children followed their new friend tothe piano.

Arthur came and sat down by me. `If rumour speaks truly,'he whispered, `we are to have a real treat!' And then, amid a breathlesssilence, the performance began.

She was one of those players whom Society talks of as`brilliant', and she dashed into the loveliest of Haydn's Symphonies ina style that was clearly the outcome of years of patient study under thebest masters. At first it seemed to be the perfection of piano-forte-playing;but in a few minutes I began to ask myself, wearily, `What is it that iswanting? Why does one get no pleasure from it?'

Then I set myself to listen intently to every note; andthe mystery explained itself. There was an almost perfect mechanical correctness--and there was nothing else! False notes, of course, did not occur: sheknew the piece too well for that; but there was just enough irregularityof time to betray that the player had no real `ear' for music--just enoughinarticulateness in the more elaborate passages to show that she did notthink her audience worth taking real pains for--just enough mechanicalmonotony of accent to take all soul out of the heavenly modulations shewas profaning--in short, it was simply irritating; and, when she had rattledoff the finale and had struck the final chord as if, the instrument, beingnow done with, it didn't matter how many wires she broke, I could not evenaffect to join in the stereotyped `Oh, thank you!' which was chorused aroundme.

Lady Muriel joined us for a moment. `Isn't it beautiful?'she whispered to Arthur, with a mischievous smile.

`No, it isn't!' said Arthur. But the gentle sweetnessof his face quite neutralized the apparent rudeness of the reply.

`Such execution, you know!' she persisted.

`That's what she deserves,' Arthur doggedly replied: `butpeople are so prejudiced against capital--'

`Now you're beginning to talk nonsense!' Lady Muriel cried.`But you do like Music, don't you? You said so just now.'

`Do I like Music?' the Doctor repeated softy to himself.`My dear Lady Muriel, there is Music and Music. Your question is painfullyvague. You might as well ask "Do you like People?"'

Lady Muriel bit her lip, frowned, and stamped with onetiny foot. As a dramatic representation of ill-temper, it was distinctlynot a success. However, it took in one of her audience, and Bruno hastenedto interpose, as peace-maker in a rising quarrel, with the remark `I likesPeoples!'

Arthur laid a loving hand on the little curly head. `What?All Peoples?' he enquired.

`Not all Peoples,' Bruno explained. `Only but Sylvie--andLady Muriel--and him--' (pointing to the Earl) `and oo--and oo!'

`You shouldn't point at people,' said Sylvie. `It's veryrude.'

`In Bruno's World,' I said, `there are only four People--worthmentioning!'

`In Bruno's World!' Lady Muriel repeated thoughtfully.`A bright and flowery world. Where the grass is always green, where thebreezes always blow softly, and the rain-clouds never gather; where thereare no wild beasts, and no deserts--'

`There must be deserts,' Arthur decisively remarked. `Atleast if it was my ideal world.'

`But what possible use is there in a desert?' said LadyMuriel. `Surely you would have no wilderness in your ideal world?'

Arthur smiled. `But indeed I would!' he said. `A wildernesswould be more necessary than a railway; and far more conducive to generalhappiness than church-bells!'

`But what would you use it for?'

`To practise music in,' he replied. `All the young ladies,that have no ear for music, but insist on learning it, should be conveyed,every morning, two or three miles into the wilderness. There each wouldfind a comfortable room provided for her, and also a cheap second-handpiano-forte, on which she might play for hours, without adding one needlesspang to the sum of human misery!'

Lady Muriel glanced round in alarm, lest these barbaroussentiments should be overheard. But the fair musician was at a safe distance.`At any rate you must allow that she's a sweet girl?' she resumed.

`Oh, certainly. As sweet as eau sucrée, if youchoose--and nearly as interesting!'

`You are incorrigible!' said Lady Muriel, and turned tome. `I hope you found Mrs. Mills an interesting companion?'

`Oh, that's her name, is it?' I said. `I fancied therewas more of it.'

`So there is: and it will be "at your proper peril" (whateverthat may mean) if you ever presume to address her as "Mrs. Mills". Sheis "Mrs. Ernest--Atkinson--Mills"!'

`She is one of those would-be grandees,' said Arthur,`who think that, by tacking on to their surname all their spare Christian-names,with hyphens between, they can give it an aristocratic flavour. As if itwasn't trouble enough to remember one surname!'

By this time the room was getting crowded, as the guests,invited for the evening-party, were beginning to arrive, and Lady Murielhad to devote herself to the task of welcoming them, which she did withthe sweetest grace imaginable. Sylvie and Bruno stood by her, deeply interestedin the process.

`I hope you like my friends?' she said to them. `Speciallymy dear old friend, Mein Herr (What's become of him, I wonder? Oh, therehe is!), that old gentleman in spectacles, with a long beard!'

`He's a grand old gentleman!' Sylvie said, gazing admiringlyat `Mein Herr', who had settled down in a corner, from which his mild eyesbeamed on us through a gigantic pair of spectacles. `And what a lovelybeard!'

`What does he call his-self?' Bruno whispered.

`He calls himself "Mein Herr",' Sylvie whispered in reply.

Bruno shook his head impatiently. `That's what he callshis hair, not his self, oo silly!' He appealed to me. `What doos he callhis self, Mister Sir?'

`That's the only name I know of,' I said. `But he looksvery lonely. Don't you pity his grey hairs?'

`I pities his self,' said Bruno, still harping on themisnomer; `but I doosn't pity his hair, one bit. His hair ca'n't feel!'

`We met him this afternoon,' said Sylvie. `We'd been tosee Nero, and we'd had such fun with him, making him invisible again! Andwe saw that nice old gentleman as we came back.'

`Well, let's go and talk to him, and cheer him up a little,'I said: `and perhaps we shall find out what he calls himself.'