sort;
which Achilles accepted, under protest always, with an implication that
he did it to oblige the donor. He had sacrificed his sleep--that was his
suggestion--and he did not deserve to be put off with shoddy goods.

"He always has a nap during music now," said his master. "He used to
insist on singing too, if he condescended to listen. I had some trouble
to convince him that he couldn't sing--hadn't been taught to produce his
voice...."

"Dear creature!--his voice produced itself like mine. M. Sanson--you
know the great training man?--wanted me to sing in one of my thoraxes or
glottises or oesophaguses. I believe I have several, but I don't know
which is which. He said my voice would last better. But I said I would
have both helpings at once; a recollection of nursery dinner, you
know...."

"I understand--Achilles's view. There, you see!" This was a claim that
an audible tail-flap on the ground was applause. It really was nothing
but its owner's courteous recognition of his own name, to which he was
always alive.

Gwen continued:--"Luckily I met the Signore, who told me Sanson's view
was very natural. What would become of all the trainers if people
produced their own voices?"

"What, indeed? But you did get some sort of drill?"

"Of course. The dear old Signore gave me some lessons. He told me an
infallible rule for people with souls. I was to sing as if the composer
was listening. I might sing scales and exercises if I liked. They had a
use. They prevented one's spoiling the great composers by hacking them
over and over before one could sing."

Adrian felt that chat of this sort was the best after all, to keep safe
for him his _modus vivendi_ with this girl, in a world she was suddenly
lighting up for him in defiance of his darkness. He _could_ have
friendship, and he was not prepared to admit that estrangement might be
the more livable _modus_ of the two. So he shut his mental eyes as close
as his physical ones, and chatted. He told a story of how a great poet,
being asked a question in a lady's album:--"What is your favourite
employment?" wrote in reply:--"Cursing the schoolmaster who made me hate
Horace in my boyhood." It was a pity to spoil "Ah vous dirai-je, maman?"
for the young pianist, but _pluies de perles_ taught nobody anything.

Gwen for her part was becoming painfully alive to the difficulties of
her Quixotic undertaking. Marcus Curtius's self-immolation was easy by
comparison, with all the