“Wonderful!” cried Mrs. Dengelton, who knew nothing about music, but admired Dvoräk because he was the fashion, and not intelligible to the ordinary mind. “So fantastic,” added Eunice, whose accomplishments did not soar above the mild singing of a mild drawing-room ballad, such as “Daddy’s Dancing,” or “Oh, if to thee my heart is Welcome!” “Well, for my part,” said the Count, shrugging his shoulders, “I think your new music is horrible.” “Ah, it does not appeal to your Hellenic spirit,” replied Crispin carelessly. “Mephistopheles felt out of place at the classical Walpurgis Night, so you, my dear Caliphronas, feel equally at sea among this diablerie of a Northern composer, so suggestive of the festival on the Bröcken.” “I don’t know what you are taking about,” said the Count uneasily, having a vague idea he was being laughed at. “Of course you don’t,” replied Crispin coolly. “You have never read ‘Faust,’ either the first or the second part.” Caliphronas knew that Crispin did not like him, and, thinking he wanted to ridicule him in the presence of the ladies, would have made some angry answer, but that Eunice, quite unaware of this storm in a teacup, asked him to sing a Greek song. “Yes, do, dear Count!” said Mrs. Dengelton gushingly. “I do so love foreign songs! They go to the soul.” “And the soul—at least the English soul—does not understand them,” observed Maurice, with a yawn, for he was growing somewhat tired of this musical discussion. “If the song is in Italian, French, or German, I can certainly understand it,” said the lady, with dignity; “but Greek I can hardly be expected to know.” “I do not think you would care much for the words if you did understand modern Greek,” remarked Crispin with a smile. “The sonorous tongue of Hellas invests the most commonplace poems with a dignity and a charm which they would lose if translated. Come, Count, and sing that love-song you used to be so fond of in Athens.” “Athens!” repeated the Count, with a significant smile, as he rose to comply with this request. “Yes, Athens!” repeated Crispin, with emphasis. “I was accustomed to play your accompaniment. How does it go?” He began playing a simple melody, which, wild though it was, sounded quite poverty-stricken after the wealth of harmonies which had so distinguished the music of Dvoräk. Caliphronas watched the player’s fingers for a little time, and then began to sing in an uncommonly fine tenor voice, though of course somewhat rough for want of training. What he lacked in delicacy, however, he made up in force and fire; and the wonderful language he sang in also assisted him greatly, though, as regards the song itself, neither melody nor words were particularly striking.