somehow it was not so interesting to discover Irene's prototype, and
her similarity to the ideal of any single old master was left undecided.

Now came the singing of coon songs with ridiculous words and haunting
refrains, while dusk descended upon London. Maudie was at the piano,
where a candle flickered on each side of the music and lit up the size
of her nose. When all the favorites of the moment had been sung, older
and now almost forgotten successes were rescued from the dust of
obscurity.

"We _are_ among the 'has beens,'" said Jenny. "Why, I remember that at
the Islington panto when I went to see you, Lilli, and that's donkey's
years ago. We've properly gone back to the year dot."

Gradually, however, the jolly dead tunes produced a sentimental effect
upon the party, commemorating as they did many bygone enjoyments. The
sense of fleeting time, evoked by the revival of discarded melodies,
began to temper their spirits. They sang the choruses more softly, as if
the undated tunes had become fragile with age and demanded a gentler
treatment. Perhaps in the gathering gloom each girl saw herself once
more in short frocks. Perhaps Lilli Vergoe distinguished the smiling
ghost of old ambition. Certainly Jenny thought of Mr. Vergoe and Madame
Aldavini and the Four Jumping Beans.

Maudie Chapman suddenly jumped up:

"Somebody else's turn."

Maurice looked at Cunningham.

"Won't you play some Chopin, old chap?"

"All right," said Cunningham, a dark, very thin young man with a high,
narrow face, seating himself at the piano. The girls composed themselves
to listen idly. Maurice drew Jenny over to an arm-chair by the window.
The studio grew darker. The notes of the piano with the rapid execution
of the player seemed phosphorescent in the candle-light. The fire glowed
crimson and dull. The atmosphere was wreathed with the smoke of many
cigarettes. The emotions of the audience were swayed by dreams that,
sustained by music, floated about the heavy air in a pervading
melancholy, inexpressibly sensuous. It was such an hour as only music
can attempt to portray. Here was youth in meditation untrammeled by the
energy of action. Age, wrought upon by music, may know regret, but only
youth can see aspiration almost incarnate. Jenny, buried in the
arm-chair, with Maurice's caressing hand upon her cheeks, thought it was
all glorious, thought that Cunningham played gloriously, that the river
with a blurred light was glorious, tha