"It's like this, Evelyn. The Margaret of Gounod and his librettist is not a real person, but a sort of keepsake beauty who sings keepsake music. I assume that you don't think much of the music; brought up as you have been on the Old Masters, you couldn't. Well, the question is whether parts designed in such an intention should be played in the like intention, or if they should be made living creations of flesh and blood, worked up by the power of the actress into something as near to the Wagner ideal as possible. I admire your Margaret; it was a wonderful performance, but--" "But what, father?" "It made me wish to see you in Elizabeth and Brunnhilde. I was very sorry I couldn't get to London last night." "You'd like my Elizabeth better. Margaret is the only part of the old lot that I now sing. I daresay you're right. I'll limit myself for the future to the Wagner repertoire." "I think you'd do well. Your genius is essentially in dramatic expression. 'Carmen,' for instance, is better as Galli Marié used to play it than as you would play it. 'Carmen' is a conventional type--all art is convention of one kind or another, and each demands its own interpretation. But I hope you don't sing that horrid music." "You don't like 'Carmen'?" Mr. Innes shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "'Faust' is better than that. Gounod follows--at a distance, of course--but he follows the tradition of Haydn and Mozart. 'Carmen' is merely Gounod and Wagner. I hope you've not forgotten my teaching; as I've always said, music ended with Beethoven and began again with Wagner." "Did you see Ulick Dean's article?" "Yes, he wrote to me last night about your Elizabeth. He says there never was anything heard like it on the stage." "Did he say that? Show me the letter. What else did he say?" "It was only a note. I destroyed it. He just said what I told you. But he's a bit mad about that opera. He's been talking to me about it all the winter, saying that the character had never been acted; apparently it has been now. Though for my part I think Brunnhilde or Isolde would suit you better." The mention of Isolde caused them to avoid looking at each other, and Evelyn asked her father to tell her about Ulick--how they became acquainted and how much they saw of each other. But to tell her when he made Ulick's acquaintance would be to allude to the time when Evelyn left home. So his account of their friendship was cursory and perfunctory, and he asked Evelyn suddenly if Ulick had shown her his opera. "Grania?" "No, not 'Grania.' He has not finished 'Grania,' but 'Connla and the Fairy Maiden.' Written," he added, "entirely on the old lines. Come into the music-room and you shall see."