Simply dressed, with no scenic effect, but only her wonderful voice and strong dramatic instinct to rely on, the lady recited a touching little piece about a dying woman, and it was truly wonderful the effect it had upon the pleasure-loving audience. In spite of the attractions of comic songs, of pretty girls, of grotesque tumblers, and of daring gymnasts, the whole body of men and women yielded to the spell of the recitation. The poem was full of human nature, and the intensity of the reciter's voice carried the pathos of the pitiful little story home to everyone. The intense humanity of the tale, declaimed in a most dramatic way by an artist, came like a breath of cool mountain air into the perfumed close atmosphere of a ball-room, and the storm of applause which broke forth at the conclusion of the recitation showed how powerful genius is to move even the most _blasé_ of humanity. "That is a step in the right direction," said Beaumont as he left the music-hall with Reginald, "everyone prophesied failure for such an experiment, but you see the voice of the heart can always reach the heart. There is more culture even among music-hall audiences than we give them credit for." "I don't think it's a question of culture at all," replied Blake bluntly; "that simple story declaimed in such a way would appeal to the lowest audience in Whitechapel. "I daresay you are right," answered Beaumont idly, "a touch of nature makes the whole world akin. I think it was Shakespeare who made that remark--wonderfully wise man--I should like to have seen him write a drama on the complex civilization of to-day." "Our dramatists of to-day do their best." "No doubt, but they write on such frivolous subjects. If they took up a broad question of the time and placed it before us in the form of a play they might evolve a new style of drama fitted to be handed down to posterity but when they concern themselves only with the drama of little things their ideas are as ephemeral as their plays. No, this is only the age of scientific discovery, not the time of poetic imaginings." Thus talking, they strolled along the crowded streets, and turned into a supper-room, where they had a comfortable meal. Beaumont tried to induce Reginald to come with him to his club, and have a game of cards, but the young man, haunted by the subtle melody of the Lorelei did not feel inclined for the green table, so bidding the artist good-night, stepped into a hansom, and was driven back to his hotel. All through his sleep that night, the shrill music rang in his brain, and he dreamed constantly of the woman with the fatal beauty, who, sitting on her rock, lured men to destruction.