The two young men gradually dropped their cigarettes. Mrs. Brande dropped her jaw. Why, her niece played as well as a man at a concert! Even better, in her opinion, for this was a tune that touched her, and that she could understand; those sweet wailing notes, resembling a human voice, penetrated her opaque sensibilities, and wafted her to the very gates of Paradise. Captain Waring surveyed with unaffected curiosity this fair young musician, with his elbows dug into the grass, his chin resting on his hands. He knew something about music; the girl played with faultless taste and absolute purity of tone. He was listening to “linked sweetness long drawn out” rendered with truly expressive charm. Here was not the common or ordinary Indian spin, but a modern Saint Cecilia! He glanced at Mark, to see how this unexpected transformation had affected him; but Mark’s face was averted, and he gave no sign, though in reality he was enjoying a debauch of exquisite musical thoughts. Presently the spell, a weird Russian air, died away in a long sobbing sigh, and, save for a murmur among the servants, there ensued quite a remarkable pause, broken at length by Mrs. Brande, who exclaimed as if she had suddenly awoke-- “_Very_ pretty indeed! And how did you like it, Captain Waring?” “Like it!” he echoed indignantly. “My dear madam, what a feeble and inadequate expression! Miss Gordon plays magnificently.” “Oh indeed, no,” she protested. “I can play music that I can feel--and that is easy, and I began to learn the violin when I was four years old, so that my fingers are pretty supple; but when I think of other people’s playing, such as Sarasate, I realize that I am nothing more than a well-meaning amateur, and never will be otherwise. I cannot master any excessive technical difficulties. I have no brilliancy--still,” with a happy little sigh, “I am glad that you liked it.” “Yes, my dear,” said her aunt, nodding her head approvingly. “And now let us have something lively. Suppose you play a polka?” But the violin was already in its case. Honor had laid it there with the air of a mother consigning an infant to its rest. “Oh, Miss Gordon, what a shame!” expostulated Mark Jervis. “I could lie on this sunny slope, under the rhododendrons, listening to you for _days_.” “You would not find it very comfortable in the _rains_,” remarked Mrs. Brande, with some asperity. She did not approve of penniless young men thus launching compliments at her accomplished niece. “And now we had better be getting on, if we are to reach Binsa before dark.”