After luncheon we went to hear a certain Miss T., an Austrian of about thirty years of age, sing at some important hall in London--Bechstein Hall, I believe it was,--and on the way I was told something of her. It seemed that she was very promising--a great success in Germany and elsewhere as a concert-singer--and that she might be coming to America at some time or other. Barfleur had known her in Paris. He seemed to think I would like her. We went and I heard a very lovely set of songs--oh, quite delightful, rendered in a warm, sympathetic, enthusiastic manner, and representing the most characteristic type of German love sentiment. It is a peculiar sentiment--tender, wistful, smacking of the sun at evening and lovely water on which the moon is shining. German sentiment verges on the mushy--is always close to tears--but anything more expressive of a certain phase of life I do not know. Miss T. sang forcefully, joyously, vigorously, and I wished sincerely to meet her and tell her so; but that was not to be, then. As we made our way to Paddington Barfleur, brisk and smiling, asked: “Were you amused?” “Quite.” “Well, then this afternoon was not wasted. I shall always be satisfied if you are amused.” I smiled, and we rode sleepily back to Bridgely Level to dine and thence to bed. CHAPTER VIII A LONDON DRAWING-ROOM I recall the next day, Sunday, with as much interest as any date, for on that day at one-thirty I encountered my first London drawing-room. I recall now as a part of this fortunate adventure that we had been talking of a new development in French art, which Barfleur approved in part and disapproved in part--the Post-Impressionists; and there was mention also of the Cubists--a still more radical departure from conventional forms, in which, if my impressions are correct, the artist passes from any attempt at transcribing the visible scene and becomes wholly geometric, metaphysical and symbolic. When I reached the house of Mrs. W., which was in one of those lovely squares that constitute such a striking feature of the West End, I was ushered upstairs to the drawing-room, where I found my host, a rather practical, shrewd-looking Dane, and his less obviously Danish wife. “Oh, Mr. Der_riz_er,” exclaimed my hostess on sight, as she came forward to greet me, a decidedly engaging woman of something over forty, with bronze hair and ruddy complexion. Her gown of green silk, cut after the latest mode, stamped her in my mind as of a romantic, artistic, eager disposition. “You must come and tell us at once what you think of the picture we are discussing. It is downstairs. Lady R. is there and Miss H. We are trying to see if we can get a better light on it. Mr. Barfleur has told me of you. You are from America. You must tell us how you like London, after you see the Degas.”