"What nonsense!" cried May, with her old schoolgirl bluntness. "As if I had not been living in the world all my life!" Mr. Rivers raised his eyebrows with an amused smile. "Well, _isn't_ it nonsense," pursued May, "to talk as if a few hundred or thousand persons in one town--though that town is London--made up the world?" "It is a phrase which every one uses, and every one understands." "But every one does not understand it alike." "Perhaps not." "What did you mean by it, just now?" "What could I mean but the world of fashion, _the_ world par excellence? Rightly so-called, no doubt, since it affords the best field for the exercise of the higher and nobler human faculties. Those who are not in it exist, indeed; but with a half-developed, inferior kind of life, like a jelly-fish." May laughed her frank young laugh. "You're not changed either!" she said emphatically. "Did you enjoy the performance with which that young gentleman has been obliging us?" asked Rivers. "I only heard the end of it." "Very diplomatically answered." "Are you fond of music, Mr. Rivers?" "Yes, of _music_--very fond." "So am I; but I know very little about it. Granny is a good musician." "How fond you are of Mrs. Dobbs!" said Rivers. "I am very proud of her, too," answered May quickly. Owen Rivers looked at her with a singular expression, half-admiring, half-tenderly, pitying--as one might look at a child whose innocent candour is as yet "unspotted from the world." "I suppose you know all the people here," said May, looking round on the assembly. "I know who they are, most of them." "That gentleman who was standing by himself at the window--the tall gentleman--who is he?" "Mr. Jawler, a great musical critic." "And the pleasant-faced man who seemed so delighted with the playing?" "Mr. Sweeting. He is an enthusiastic admirer and patron of young Cleveland Turner, the pianist: a very kindly, amiable, courteous gentleman, with much money and leisure, as I am told." "That stout lady talking to Miss Piper seems to be musical also?" "That is Lady Moppett: a very good sort of woman, I dare say, but fanatical. She would bowstring all us dogs of Christians who believe in melody." "And who is that disagreeable little man in the corner?" "Disagreeable----?" "The little man with moustaches. There. Close to the nice-looking, dark-eyed girl." "Oh, that man? But he is not considered disagreeable by the world in general, Miss Cheffington! He is by way of being a rather fascinating individual: Signor Vincenzo Valli, singing-master, and composer of songs. I wonder why he condescends to favour Miss Piper with his presence." "Is it a condescension?" "A great condescension. Signor Valli is nothing, if not aristocratic."