Ember strolled back to his favourite place by the fire as he spoke, and Lady Heritage broke into a resounding chord. She played what Henry afterwards described as “an infernal pandemonium of a thing.” It appeared to be in several keys at once, and marched from one riot of discord to another until it ended with a strident crash which set up a humming jangle of vibrations. “Like that, Henry?” said Lady Heritage. “No,” said Henry, monosyllabic in his turn. “No one ever likes to hear the truth,” said Raymond. “You all want something pleasant, something smooth, something like this”—her fingers slipped into the “Blue Danube” waltz. She played it exquisitely, with a melting delicacy of touch and a beautiful sense of rhythm. After a dozen bars or so she stopped suddenly, leaned her elbow on the keyboard, and through the little clang of the impact said: “Well?” “That’s topping,” said Henry. He looked across at her admiringly—the long sweep of the ebony piano, the white keyboard with the black notes standing clear, Raymond in her velvet and pearls, and behind her the imperial yellow of China. “Soothing syrup,” she said. “You’re not up to date, Henry, I’m afraid. The moderns show us things as they are, and we don’t like it, but the soothing syrups lose their power to soothe once you find out that they are just ... dope.” “I wish you’d sing,” said Henry. She looked across him at Ember, and an expression difficult to define hardened her face. “This isn’t modern, but will you like it?” she said, and preluded. Then she began to sing in a deep mezzo: “The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone. Here in this battered Caravanserai, Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his Way.” The notes came heavy and tragic. In her voice there seemed to be gathered all the tragedy, all the emotion of human life. The sound fell almost to a whisper: “The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon the Desert’s dusty Face Lighting its little Hour or two—is gone.” Suddenly the voice rose ringing like a trumpet, a great chord crashed out: “Waste not your Hour!” The deep octaves followed. Then she passed into modulating phrases and began to sing again. “Her voice is nearly as beautiful as she is,” thought Jane, “but somehow—she shakes one.” “Ah Love, could you and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would we not shatter it to bits, and then Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire?” With the last word she rose, turned from the piano and the room, and went out to the terrace.