“Perhaps you are not musical.”

“That would not prevent my understanding the feelings of people like yourself.  I don’t want to be musical.  I want to get a grip of this thing.  I want to know.  Tell me why you like it and why I don’t.  Tell me—­”

The sounds began again.

“Ah!” said the Duchess, “that wonderful andante con brio!”

Then, as the strains grew louder, she whispered to Don Francesco upon a subject which had always puzzled her.

“I would be glad to learn,” she said, “why our parliamentary representative, Commendatore Morena, has never yet visited Nepenthe.  Surely it is his duty to show himself now and then to his parishioners—­constituents, I mean?  This festival of Saint Dodekanus would have been such a good opportunity.  His appearance would have been a discomfiture for the free-thinkers.  Every year he promises to come.  And every year he fails us.  Why?”

“I cannot tell,” replied the priest.  “The animal has probably got other things to do.”

“The animal?  Ah, don’t say that!  And such a good Catholic!”

“Foreigners, dear Duchess, I leave to your judgment.  They are of little account, anyhow.  But you will be guided by me in your appreciation of the worldly qualities of natives.  Otherwise, with all your intelligence, it will be impossible for you to avoid mistakes.  Let us leave it at that.”

“But why—­”

“We will leave it at that, dear lady!”

“Indeed we will, Don Francesco,” replied the Duchess, who loved to be ruled in matters of this kind.

At this moment, the performer rose from the piano with unexpected suddenness remarking Sotto Voce that if he had known he was to play on a spinet he would have brought some Lulli with him.  He was beaming all over, none the less, and soon making arrangements with other guests for a series of picnics and boating excursions—­getting on swimmingly, in fact, when the thoughtless Madame Steynlin captured him and began to talk music.  He repeated that remark, too good to be lost, about the spinet; it led to Scarlatti, Mozart, Handel.  He said Handel was the saviour of English music.  She said Handel was its blight and damnation.  Each being furnished with copious arguments, the discussion degenerated into technicalities.

Denis, meanwhile, was handing round tea-cakes and things, with the double object of making himself useful and of being as near as possible to Angelina, the hand-maiden of the Duchess, a bewitchingly pretty brunette, who was doing the same.  Perhaps the existence of Angelin accounted for his respectful attentions and frequent visits to the Duchess.  He felt he was really in love for the first time in his life.