'I did not mean to speak otherwise than generally. I believe in England it is considered "bad form" to show feeling of any sort--and you English hate sentiment, don't you?' 'I don't think we hate sincere feeling of any kind; but forgive me for asking--are you really an exile?' Count Litvinoff bowed. 'I have that misfortune--or that honour, as, in spite of all, I suppose it is. But won't you sing something else?' he added, with a complete change of manner, which made any return on her part to the subject of his exile impossible. 'I really think I've done my duty to-night,' she answered, rising. 'Don't you sing?' 'Yes, sometimes. Music is a consolation. And one is driven to make music for oneself when one lives a very lonely life.' 'Won't you make music for us?' she asked, ignoring the fact that her father was still snoring with vigour. 'Yes, if you wish it.' He took her place at the piano, and, in a low voice, sang a Hungarian air, wild and melancholy, with a despairing minor refrain. While her thanks were being spoken his fingers strayed over the keys, and, almost insensibly as it seemed, fell into a few chords that suggested the air of the Marseillaise. 'Oh, do sing that! I've never heard anyone but a schoolgirl attempt it, and I long so to hear it really sung. I think it's glorious.' Without a word he obeyed her, and launched into the famous battle song of Liberty. His singing of the other song had been a whisper, but in this he gave his voice full play, and sang it with a fire, a fervour, a splendid earnestness and enthusiasm, that made the air vibrate, and thrilled Clare through and through with an utterly new emotion. She understood now how this song had been able to stir men to such deeds as she had read of--had nerved ragged, half-starved, untrained battalions to scatter like chaff the veteran armies of Europe. She understood it all as she listened to the mingled pathos, defiance, confidence of victory, vengeance and passionate patriotism, which Rouget de Lisle alone of all men has been able to concentrate and to embody in one immortal song, in every note of which breathes the very soul of Liberty. As the last note was struck and Litvinoff turned round from the piano, he almost smiled at the contrasts in the picture before him--a girl leaning forward, her face lighted up with sympathetic fire, and her eyes glowing with sympathetic enthusiasm, and an old gentleman standing on the hearthrug, very red in the face, very wide awake, and unutterably astonished. The girl was certainly very lovely, and if the exile thought so, as he glanced somewhat deprecatingly at the old gentleman, who shall blame him? 'How splendid!' said Clare. 'Very fine, very fine,' said her father; 'but--er--for the moment I didn't know where I was.' This reduced the situation to the absurd--and they all laughed.