Mrs. Le Moine was playing again, quite differently; all the passion and the wildness were gone now; she was playing a sixteenth century tune, curiously naïf and tender and engaging, and objective, like a child’s singing, or Jane Dawn’s drawings. The detachment of it, the utter self-obliteration, pleased Eddy even more than the passion of the dance; here was genius at its highest. It seemed to him very wonderful that she should be giving of her best so lavishly to a roomful of ignorant Borough lads; very wonderful, and at the same time very characteristic of her wayward, quixotic, self-pleasing generosity, that he fancied was neither based on any principle, nor restrained by any considerations of prudence. She would always, he imagined, give just what she felt inclined, and when she felt inclined, whatever the gifts she dealt in. Anyhow she had become immensely popular in the club-room. The admiration roused by her music was increased by the queer charm she carried with her. She stood about among the boys for a little, talking. She told them about the tunes, what they were and whence they came; she whistled a bar here and there, and they took it up from her; she had asked which they had liked, and why. “In my Settlement up by the Lea,” said Datcherd to Eddy, “she’s got some of the tunes out into the streets already. You hear them being whistled as the men go to work.” Eddy looked at Hillier, to see if he hadn’t been softened by this wonderful evening. Hillier, of course, had liked the music; anyone would. But his moral sense had a fine power of holding itself severely aloof from conversion by any but moral suasions. He was genially chatting with the boys, as usual--Hillier was delightful with boys and girls, and immensely popular--but Eddy suspected him unchanged in his attitude towards the visitors. Eddy, for music like that, would have loved a Mrs. Pendennis (had she been capable of producing it) let alone anyone so likeable as Eileen Le Moine. Hillier, less susceptible to influence, still sat in judgment. Flushed and bright-eyed, Eddy made his way to Mrs. Le Moine. “I say, thanks most awfully,” he said. “I knew it was going to be wonderful, but I didn’t know how wonderful. I shall come to all your concerts now.” Hillier overheard that, and his brows rose a little. He didn’t see how Eddy was going to make the time to attend all Mrs. Le Moine’s concerts; it would mean missing club nights, and whole afternoons. In his opinion, Eddy, for a parish worker, went too much out of the parish already. Mrs. Le Moine said, with her usual lack of circumlocution, “I’ll come again next Monday. Shall I? I would like to get the music thoroughly into their heads; they’re keen enough to make it worth while.” Eddy said promptly, “Oh, will you really? How splendid.”