ink so? Now promise that you will
talk to her after dinner."

"Talk metaphysics to a bull, and the first thing you know--the first
thing you know--I beg your pardon, Mrs. Weldon, I didn't mean to say
that--I don't know how the stupid phrase got in my head or why I said
it." He hesitated a moment, and seemed to think. "H'm," he went on, "I
am a trifle tired, I fancy."

Mrs. Weldon looked suspiciously at the glasses at his side, but
apparently they had not been so much as tasted; they were full to the
rim. She turned again to the guest at her left. The dinner was almost
done. She asked a few more questions, and then presently, in a general
lull, she gave a glance about her. At that signal the women-folk rose in
a body, the men rising also, to let them pass.

Tristrem had risen mechanically with the others, and when the ultimate
flounce had disappeared he sat down again and busied himself with a cup
of coffee. The other men had drawn their chairs together near him, and
over the liqueurs were discussing topics of masculine interest and
flavor. Tristrem was about to make some effort to join in the
conversation, when from beyond there came the running scale that is the
prelude to the cabaletta, _Non piu mesta_, from Cenerentola. Then,
abruptly, a voice rang out as though it vibrated through labyrinths of
gold--a voice that charged the air with resonant accords--a voice
prodigious and dominating, grave and fluid; a voice that descended into
the caverns of sound, soared to the uttermost heights, scattering notes
like showers of stars, evoking visions of flesh and dazzling steel, and
in its precipitate flights and vertiginous descents disclosing
landscapes riotous with flowers, rich with perfume, sentient with
beauty, articulate with love; a voice voluptuous as an organ and
languorous as the consonance of citherns and guitars.

Tristrem, as one led in leash, moved from the table and passed into the
outer room. Miss Raritan was at the piano. Beyond, a group of women sat
hushed and mute; and still the resilient waves of song continued. One by
one the men issued noiselessly from the inner room. And then, soon, the
voice sank and died away like a chorus entering a crypt.

Miss Raritan rose from the piano. As she did so, Weldon, as it becomes a
host, hastened to her. There was a confused hum, a murmur of applause,
and above it rose a discreet and prolonged _brava_ that must have come
from the novelist. Weldon, seemingly, was urg