read it two or three days later at Artenberg.

"Hey for the wedding-song and one night more!" he cried.

We rolled off, we three, in Varvilliers' carriage.

CHAPTER XXVII.

OF GRAZES ON THE KNEE.

There was no doubt that they practised the marriage-song. Coralie's
voice echoed through the house as we entered. For a moment we paused in
the hall to listen. Then Wetter dashed up the stairs, crying, "Good God!
Wooden, wooden, wooden!" We followed him at a run; he flung the door
open and rushed in. Coralie broke off her singing and came to greet me
with a little cry of pleased surprise. Struboff sat at the piano,
looking rather bewildered. Supper was spread on a table at the other end
of the room. When Struboff tried to rise, Wetter thrust him back into
his seat. "No, no, the King doesn't want to talk to you," he said. "He
wants to hear madame sing, to hear you play. Coralie, come and sing
again, and, for God's sake sing it as if it meant something, dear
Coralie."

"It's such nonsense," said Coralie, with a pouting smile.

"Nonsense? Then it needs all your efforts. As if--as if, I say--it meant
something."

Varvilliers, laughing, flung himself on a sofa. I stood at the end of
the piano, Wetter was gesticulating and muttering on the hearthrug.
Struboff put his fingers on the keys again and began to play; after a
sigh of weariness Coralie uplifted her voice. It came fresh and full;
the weariness was of the spirit only. The piece was good, nay, very
good; there were feeling and passion in the music. I looked at Struboff.
His fingers moved tenderly, tears stood in his little eyes. Coralie
shouted perfect notes in perfect heartlessness.

"My God!" muttered Wetter from the hearthrug, and bounded across to her.
He caught her by the arm.

"Feel, feel, feel!" he cried angrily.

"Don't be so stupid," said Coralie.

"She can't feel it," said Struboff, taking his handkerchief and wiping
brow and eyes.

"She's a fortunate woman," remarked Varvilliers from his sofa.

"You'd think she could," said Wetter, taking both her hands and
surveying her from top to toe. "You'd think she could understand. Look
at her eyes, her brows, her lips. You'd think she could understand. Look
at her hands, her waist, her neck. It's a little strange, isn't it? See,
she smiles at me. She has an adorably good temper. She doesn't mind me
in the least. It's just that she happens not to be able to feel."

During all this outburst Struboff