m, without
troubling to take leave of his hostess.

"What a strange young man," exclaimed the Duchess; "now do take me into
the next room," she went on almost in the same breath, "I'm just dying
for some iced coffee."

Yeovil escorted her through the throng of Ronnie-worshippers to the
desired haven of refreshment.

"Marvellous!" Mrs. Menteith-Mendlesohnn was exclaiming in ringing trumpet
tones; "of course I always knew he could play, but this is not mere piano
playing, it is tone-mastery, it is sound magic. Mrs. Yeovil has
introduced us to a new star in the musical firmament. Do you know, I
feel this afternoon just like Cortez, in the poem, gazing at the newly
discovered sea."

"'Silent upon a peak in Darien,'" quoted a penetrating voice that could
only belong to Joan Mardle; "I say, can any one picture Mrs. Menteith-
Mendlesohnn silent on any peak or under any circumstances?"

If any one had that measure of imagination, no one acknowledged the fact.

"A great gift and a great responsibility," Canon Mousepace was assuring
the Grafin; "the power of evoking sublime melody is akin to the power of
awakening thought; a musician can appeal to dormant consciousness as the
preacher can appeal to dormant conscience. It is a responsibility, an
instrument for good or evil. Our young friend here, we may be sure, will
use it as an instrument for good. He has, I feel certain, a sense of his
responsibility."

"He is a nice boy," said the Grafin simply; "he has such pretty hair."

In one of the window recesses Rhapsodie Pantril was talking vaguely but
beautifully to a small audience on the subject of chromatic chords; she
had the advantage of knowing what she was talking about, an advantage
that her listeners did not in the least share. "All through his playing
there ran a tone-note of malachite green," she declared recklessly,
feeling safe from immediate contradiction; "malachite green, my
colour--the colour of striving."

Having satisfied the ruling passion that demanded gentle and dextrous
self-advertisement, she realised that the Augusta Smith in her craved
refreshment, and moved with one of her over-awed admirers towards the
haven where peaches and iced coffee might be considered a certainty.

The refreshment alcove, which was really a good-sized room, a sort of
chapel-of-ease to the larger drawing-room, was already packed with a
crowd who felt that they could best discuss Ronnie's triumph between
mouthfuls of f