“I don’t know,” said Lady Muriel. “But I’m told she’s a wonderful piano-forte-player. I hope you’ll hear her to-night. I asked that foreigner to take her in, because _he’s_ very musical, too. He’s a French Count, I believe; and he sings _splendidly_!” “Science—music—singing—you have indeed got a complete party!” said Arthur. “I feel quite a privileged person, meeting all these stars. I _do_ love music!” “But the party isn’t _quite_ complete!” said Lady Muriel. “You haven’t brought us those two beautiful children,” she went on, turning to me. “He brought them here to tea, you know, one day last summer,” again addressing Arthur; “and they _are_ such darlings!” “They are, _indeed_,” I assented. “But why haven’t you brought them with you? You promised my father you _would_.” “I’m very sorry,” I said; “but really it was impossible to bring them with me.” Here I most certainly _meant_ to conclude the sentence: and it was with a feeling of utter amazement, which I cannot adequately describe, that I heard myself _going on speaking_. “—but they are to join me here in the course of the evening” were the words, uttered in _my_ voice, and seeming to come from _my_ lips. “I’m _so_ glad!” Lady Muriel joyfully replied. “I _shall_ enjoy introducing them to some of my friends here! When do you expect them?” I took refuge in silence. The only _honest_ reply would have been “That was not _my_ remark. _I_ didn’t say it, and _it isn’t true_!” But I had not the moral courage to make such a confession. The character of a ‘lunatic’ is not, I believe, very difficult to _acquire_: but it is amazingly difficult to _get rid of_: and it seemed quite certain that any such speech as _that_ would _quite_ justify the issue of a writ ‘_de lunatico inquirendo_.’ Lady Muriel evidently thought I had failed to hear her question, and turned to Arthur with a remark on some other subject; and I had time to recover from my shock of surprise—or to awake out of my momentary ‘eerie’ condition, whichever it was. When things around me seemed once more to be real, Arthur was saying “I’m afraid there’s no help for it: they _must_ be finite in number.” “I should be sorry to have to believe it,” said Lady Muriel. “Yet, when one comes to think of it, there _are_ no new melodies, now-a-days. What people talk of as ‘the last new song’ always recalls to _me_ some tune I’ve known as a child!” “The day must come—if the world lasts long enough——” said Arthur, “when every possible tune will have been composed—every possible pun perpetrated——” (Lady Muriel wrung her hands, like a tragedy-queen) “and, worse than that, every possible _book_ written! For the number of _words_ is finite.” “It’ll make very little difference to the _authors_,” I suggested. “Instead of saying ‘_what_ book shall I write?’ an author will ask himself ‘_which_ book shall I write?’ A mere verbal distinction!”