But middle-class pedestrians, having paid five shillings for a ticket to hear the music they love, and not having full assurance of refreshment, are often, latterly, satirical upon their superiors; and, over this country at least, require the refreshment, that the democratic sprouts in them may be reconciled with aristocracy.  Do not listen to them further on the subject.  They vote safely enough when the day comes, if there is no praetematurally strong pull the other way.

They perceive the name of the Hon. Dudley Sowerby, fourth down the Concert-bill; marked for a flute-duet with Mr. Victor Radnor, Miss Nesta Victoria Radnor accompanying at the piano.  It may mean? . . . do you want a whisper to suggest to you what it may mean?  The father’s wealth is enormous; the mother is a beautiful majestic woman in her prime.  And see, she sings:  a wonderful voice.  And lower down, a duet with her daughter:  violins and clarionet; how funny; something Hungarian.  And in the Second Part, Schubert’s Ave Maria—­Oh! when we hear that, we dissolve.  She was a singer before he married her, they say:  a lady by birth one of the first County families.  But it was a gift, and she could not be kept from it, and was going, when they met—­and it was love! the most perfect duet.  For him she abandoned the Stage.  You must remember, that in their young days the Stage was many stages beneath the esteem entertained for it now.  Domestic Concerts are got up to gratify her:  a Miss Fredericks:  good old English name.  Mr. Radnor calls his daughter, Freddy; so Mr. Taplow, the architect, says.  They are for modern music and ancient.  Tannhauser, Wagner, you see.  Pergolese.

Flute-duet, Mercadante.  Here we have him!  O—­Durandarte:  Air Basque, variations—­his own.  Again, Senor Durandarte, Mendelssohn.  Encore him, and he plays you a national piece.  A dark little creature a Life-guardsman could hold-up on his outstretched hand for the fifteen minutes of the performance; but he fills the hall and thrills the heart, wafts you to heaven; and does it as though he were conversing with his Andalusian lady-love in easy whispers about their mutual passion for Spanish chocolate all the while:  so the musical critic of the Tirra-Lirra says.  Express trains every half hour from London; all the big people of the city.  Mr. Radnor commands them, like Royalty.  Totally different from that old figure of the wealthy City merchant; young, vigorous, elegant, a man of taste, highest culture, speaks the languages of Europe, patron of the Arts, a perfect gentleman.  His mother was one of the Montgomerys, Mr. Taplow says.

And it was General Radnor, a most distinguished officer, dying knighted.  But Mr. Victor Radnor would not take less than a Barony—­and then only with descent of title to his daughter, in her own right.

Mr. Taplow had said as much as Victor Radnor chose that he should say.