feel as
if I were one of a band of criminals. Every person I met looked at me
as if the universe were about to be destroyed next minute, and they had
to build another up right away without God to help 'em!"

"Well, I believe I agree with you," said Colonel Everard. "The English
take life too seriously. In their craze for business they manage to do
away with pleasure altogether. They seem afraid to laugh, and they even
approach the semblance of a smile with due caution."

"I'm free to confess," added his wife, "that I'm not easily chilled
through. But an English 'at home' acts upon me like a patent
refrigerator--I get regularly frozen to the bone!"

"Dear me!" laughed Zara; "you give very bad accounts of Shakespeare's
land! It must be very sad!"

"I believe it wasn't always so," pursued Colonel Everard; "there are
legends which speak of it as Merrie England. I dare say it might have
been merry once, before it was governed by shopkeepers; but now, you
must get away from it if you want to enjoy life. At least such is my
opinion. But have you never been in England, Madame Casimir? You speak
English perfectly."

"Oh, I am a fairly good linguist," replied Zara, "thanks to my brother.
But I have never crossed the Channel."

The Misses Challoner looked politely surprised; their father's shrewd
face wore an expression of grim contentment.

"Don't cross it, ma'am," he said emphatically, "unless you have a
special desire to be miserable. If you want to know how Christians love
one another and how to be made limply and uselessly wretched, spend a
Sunday in London."

"I think I will not try the experiment, Mr. Challoner," returned Zara
gaily. "Life is short, and I prefer to enjoy it."

"Say," interrupted Mrs. Challoner, turning to me at this juncture, "now
you are feeling so well, would it be asking you too much to play us a
piece of your own improvising?"

I glanced at the grand piano, which occupied a corner of the salon
where we sat, and hesitated. But at a slight nod from Zara, I rose,
drew off my gloves, and seated myself at the instrument. Passing my
hands lightly over the keys, I wandered through a few running passages;
and as I did so, murmured a brief petition to my aerial friend Aeon.
Scarcely had I done this, when a flood of music seemed to rush to my
brain and thence to my fingers, and I played, hardly knowing what I
played, but merely absorbed in trying to give utterance to the sounds
which were falling sof