“It is a complicated art, of course,” said Carrilla proudly, “and certain mechanical devices are necessary. For instance, when the strings are carrying the theme, this device insures the repetition of the motif. Music is after all only the mathematics of melody. It has its repetitions, iterations and progressions. I indicate the theme on the keyboard while underneath by these different pedals I throw it into the different instruments I desire. Do you see? So. Here are the flutes, now I close the flutes and bring up the cellos, now both mingle and now one plays this simple theme against the other. Is it clear?” “Clear as the suspension of the solar system in space. Since we see it, it is so, but just as miraculous.” “Recline and I shall play--just for you,” she said in a low voice, pressing my hand. I returned and placed myself between Acquilla and Dianne, agreeably intoxicated by their fragrant personalities, while Carrilla began to play. Even now I cannot believe the testimony of my senses. All I can say is that apparently Carrilla at the keyboard seemed to play upon an invisible orchestra as deftly as though she were rendering a simple performance on the pianoforte. Possibly the orchestron was merely a glorified organ. The thought occurred to me. But if so, it was unlike any organ I had ever listened to and there was not the faintest note of the piping tremolo I associated with that instrument. After this divine music, Dianne without rising, sang to Carrilla’s accompaniment, the air of Elsa from Lohengrin (Wagner alone seemed to have survived) and another that resembled somewhat the salute to the sun in Coq d’Or. She was so close that I could almost feel the passing of the lovely liquid notes against my cheek. Once in an impassioned burst I felt her hand slip into mine and lie there all tremulous with emotion. My own senses were now in such a whirl by the magnetism of her nearness that fearing to betray myself, I sat up at the conclusion of her song and said: “Carrilla and Dianne, for pity’s sake, no more! If I listen any longer to your ravishing music, I shall feel myself back on Calypso’s island bewitched by the songs of sirens. And you know what happened to those who listened?” I drew a long sharp breath and to recover some calm added, “Oh, by the way, I have one complaint to make, but that is a serious one. Who emasculated the rôle of Tristan in the otherwise perfect performance I witnessed yesterday?” The Amazons glanced at one another in surprise. “Emasculate? Just what do you mean, Bogardus?” said Acquilla at length. “While it is true that the passion of love overwhelms each at the drinking of the love potion, Tristan is a magnificent male, a hero of a hundred battles, one of the famous knights of legend. But you make him a pliant shrinking personality dominated by Isolde.” “But after all, Tristan is a man!” exclaimed Dianne, after a chorus of exclamations.