“‘Have you seen but a white lily grow?’ and ’Que vous me coutez cher, mon coeur, pour vos plaisirs.’”

“Ah! that music must have surprised him.  What did he say?”

“I don’t think I sang very well, but he seemed pleased, and asked me if I knew any modern music.  I said ‘Very little.’  He was surprised at that.  But he said I had a very fine voice, and sang the old music beautifully, but that it would be impossible for me to sing modern music without ruining my voice, until I had been taught.  I asked him if it would not be well to try to earn a little money by concert singing, so that I might go abroad later on.  He said, ’I am glad that all my arrangements are made, otherwise I might be tempted to offer you an engagement.  One engagement leads to another, and if you sing before your voice is properly placed’—­’posee’ was the word he used—­’you will ruin it.’”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all.”  Then, noticing the pained look that had come into her father’s face, she added, “It was nice to hear that he thought well of my voice.”

But she could tell what he was thinking of, and regretting her tongue’s indiscretion, she tried to divert his thoughts from herself.  His brooding look continued, and to remove it she had to fetch his pipe and tobacco.  When he had filled it for the third time he said—­

“There is the Bach and the Handel sonata waiting for us; we ought to be getting to work.”

“I’m quite ready, father.  I suppose I must not eat any more oranges,” and she surveyed her plate full of skins.

Mr. Innes took up the lamp, Evelyn called to the servant to get another, and followed him into the music-room.  The lamps were placed on the harpsichord.  She lighted some candles, and in the moods and aspirations of great men they found a fairyland, and the lights disappeared from the windows opposite, leaving them still there.

The wings of the hours were light—­weariness could not reach them—­and at half-past eleven Mr. Innes was speaking of a beautiful motet, “O Magnum Mysterium,” by Vittoria.  His fingers lingered in the wailing chords, and he said—­

“That is where Wagner went for his chorus of youths in the cupola.  The critics haven’t discovered it yet; they are still talking of Palestrina.”

CHAPTER TWO

Jesuits from St. Joseph’s were not infrequently seen at Mr. Innes’s concerts.  The worthy fathers, although they did not see their way to guaranteeing a yearly grant of money sufficient to ensure adequate performances of Palestrina’s finest works, were glad to support, with occasional guineas, their organist’s concerts.  Painters and men of letters were attracted by them; musicians seldom.  Nor did Mr. Innes encourage their presence.  Musicians were of no use to him.  They were, he said, divided into two classes—­those who came to scoff, and those who came to steal.  He did not want either sort.