Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request amongst his father’s friends at evening entertainments. He could also play the piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself thereon. He sang to himself when he was travelling, and often murmured favourite airs when people around him were talking. He had lessons from an old Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, who was not very proud of his pupil. ‘He is a talent,’ said the Signor, ‘and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad at a party, but a musician? no!’ and like all mere ‘talents’ Frank failed in his songs to give them just what is of most value—just that which separates an artistic performance from the vast region of well-meaning, respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a curious lack in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest of himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was not the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful in many ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven was genuine, but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which the sonatas and symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into raptures over the slow movement in the _C minor_ Symphony, but no _C minor_ slow movement was discernible in his character. ‘What on earth can be found in “St Paul” which can be put to music?’ said Madge. ‘Fancy a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned into a duet!’ ‘Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,’ said her mother. ‘Well, mother,’ said Clara, ‘I am sure that some of the settings by your divinity, Handel, are absurd. “_For as in Adam all die_” may be true enough, and the harmonies are magnificent, but I am always tempted to laugh when I hear it.’ Frank hummed the familiar apostrophe ‘_Be not afraid_.’ ‘Is that a bit of “St Paul”?’ said Mrs Hopgood. ‘Yes, it goes like this,’ and Frank went up to the little piano and sang the song through. ‘There is no fault to be found with that,’ said Madge, ‘so far as the coincidence of sense and melody is concerned, but I do not care much for oratorios. Better subjects can be obtained outside the Bible, and the main reason for selecting the Bible is that what is called religious music may be provided for good people. An oratorio, to me, is never quite natural. Jewish history is not a musical subject, and, besides, you cannot have proper love songs in an oratorio, and in them music is at its best.’ Mrs Hopgood was accustomed to her daughter’s extravagance, but she was, nevertheless, a little uncomfortable. ‘Ah!’ said Frank, who had not moved from the piano, and he struck the first two bars of ‘_Adelaide_.’ ‘Oh, please,’ said Madge, ‘go on, go on,’ but Frank could not quite finish it.