At this point of the dialogue Mr. Vivian Darnley--who wished that it should be plain to all, and to one in particular, that he did not care the least what was going on in other parts of the room--began to stumble through the treble of a tune at the piano with his right hand. And whatever other people may have thought of his performance, to Miss Alice Arden it seemed very good music indeed, and inspired her with fresh animation. Such as it was, Mr. Darnley's solo also turned the course of Miss Arden's thoughts from drawing to another art, and she said-- "You, Mr. Longcluse, who know everything about the opera, can you tell me--of course you can--anything about the great basso who is coming?" "Stentoroni?" "Yes; the newspapers and critics promise wonders." "It is nearly two years since I heard him. He was very great, and deserves all they say in 'Robert le Diable.' But there his greatness began and ended. The voice, of course, you had, but everything else was defective. It is plain, however, that the man who could make so fine a study of one opera, could with equal labour make as great a success in others. He has not sung in any opera for more than a year and a half, and has been working diligently; and so everyone is in the dark very much, and I am curious to hear the result--and nobody knows more than I have told you. You are sure of a good 'Robert le Diable,' but all the rest is speculation." "And now, Mr. Longcluse, I shall try your good-nature." "How?" "I am going to make Lady May ask you to sing a song." "Pray don't." "Why not?" "I should so much rather you asked me yourself." "That's very good of you; then I certainly shall. I _do_ ask you." "And I instantly obey. And what shall the song be?" asked he, approaching the piano, to which she also walked. "Oh, that ghostly one that I liked so much when you sang it here about a week ago," she answered. "I know it--yes, with pleasure." And he sat down at the piano, and in a clear, rich baritone, sang the following odd song:-- "The autumn leaf was falling At midnight from the tree, When at her casement calling, 'I'm here, my love,' says he. 'Come down and mount behind me, And rest your little head, And in your white arms wind me, Before that I be dead. "'You've stolen my heart by magic, I've kissed your lips in dreams: Our wooing wild and tragic Has been in ghostly scenes. The wondrous love I bear you Has made one life of twain, And it will bless or scare you, In deathless peace or pain. "'Our dreamland shall be glowing, If you my bride will be; To darkness both are going, Unless you come with me. Come now, and mount behind me, And rest your little head, And in your white arms wind me, Before that I be dead.'"