the top note of which is the tune, but the older writers used
their skill in divining musical phrases which could be followed
simultaneously, each one going logically its own way, irrespective of
some temporary clashing. They considered their music horizontally, as
the parts went on; we consider it vertically, each chord producing its
impression in turn. To them all the parts were of equal importance.
Their music was a purely decorative interweaving of melodies. Now we
have a tune with accompanying parts."

"What a wonderful knowledge of music your father has, Miss Innes!"

"Yes, father reads old MSS. that no one else can decipher."

"These discords happened," Mr. Innes said, as he went to the
harpsichord, "when a composition was based upon some old plain song
melody, the notes of which could not be altered. Then the musician did
not scruple to write in one of the other parts the same note altered by
a sharp or flat to suit the passing requirement of the musical phrase
allotted to that part. You could thus have together, say an F natural in
one part and an F sharp in another. This to modern ears, not trained to
understanding the meaning of the two parts, is intolerable."

While he spoke of the relative fineness of the ancient and modern ear,
maintaining that the reason ancient singers could sing without an
accompaniment was that they were trained to sing from the monochord,
Owen considered the figure of this tall, fair girl, and wondered if she
would elect to remain with her father, playing the viola da gamba in
Dulwich, or bolt with a manager--that was what generally happened. Her
father was a most interesting old man, a genius in his way, but just
such an one as might prove his daughter's ruin. He would keep her
singing the old music, perhaps marry her to a clerk, and she would be a
fat, prosaic mother of three in five years.

However this might be, he, Owen, was interested in her voice, and, if he
had never met Georgina, he might have liked this girl. It would be
better that he should take her away than that she should go away with a
manager who would rob and beat her. But, if he were to take her away, he
would be tied to her; it would be like marrying her. Far better stick to
married women, and he remembered his epigram of last night. It was at
Lady. Ascott's dinner-party, the conversation had turned on marriage,
and its necessity had been questioned. "But, of course, marriage is
necessary," he had answered. "Y