t A---- House that night was brilliant rather than large. In
one of the drawing-rooms there was a piano, in front of which were six
or seven rows of gilt chairs. The other rooms were filled with shifting
groups of beautiful women, and men wearing orders and medals. There was
a continuous buzz of conversation, except in the room where the music
was going on; and even there in the background there was a subdued
whispering. The violinist was playing some elaborate nothings, and
displaying astounding facility, but the audience did not seem to be much
interested, for when he stopped, after some faint applause, conversation
broke loose like a torrent.

"I do hope," said some one to the lady next him, "that the music will be
over soon. One gets wedged in here, one doesn't dare move, and one had
to put up with having one's conversation spoilt and interrupted."

"It's an extraordinary thing," answered the lady, "that nobody dares
give a party in London without some kind of entertainment. It _is_ such
a mistake!"

At that moment the fourth and last item on the programme began, which
was called "Greek Songs by Heraclius Themistocles Margaritis."

"He certainly looks like a Greek," said the lady who had been talking;
"in fact if his hair was cut he would be quite good-looking."

"It's not my idea of a Greek," whispered her neighbour. "He is too fair.
I thought Greeks were dark."

"Hush!" said the lady, and the first song began. It was a strange thread
of sound that came upon the ears of the listeners, rather high and
piercing, and the accompaniment (Margaritis accompanied himself) was
twanging and monotonous like the sound of an Indian tom-tom. The same
phrase was repeated two or three times over, the melody seemed to
consist of only a very few notes, and to come over and over again with
extraordinary persistence. Then the music rose into a high shrill call
and ended abruptly.

"What has happened?" asked the lady. "Has he forgotten the words?"

"I think the song is over," said the man. "That's one comfort at any
rate. I hate songs which I can't understand."

But their comments were stopped by the beginning of another song. The
second song was soft and very low, and seemed to be almost entirely on
one note. It was still shorter than the first one, and ended still more
abruptly.

"I don't believe he's a Greek at all," said the man. "His songs are just
like the noise of bagpipes."

"I daresay he's a Scotch," said the lady