"Kanst du spielen?" and the interminable list of musical instruments so easily mastered by that Teutonic musician. "I want to sing you a section of one of those imbecile, colourless, pastel-tinted and very precious Debussy things," she exclaimed; and did so, wandering and meandering on and on through meaningless mazes of sound until he begged for mercy and even had to stay her hands on the key-board with his own. She stopped then, pretending disappointment and surprise. "Very well," she said; "you'll have to match my performance with something equally imbecile"; and she composed herself to listen. "What shall I do that is sufficiently imbecile?" he asked gravely; "turn seven solemn handsprings?" "That isn't silly enough. Roll over on the rug and play dead." He prepared to do so but she wouldn't permit him: "No! I don't want to remember you doing such a thing.... All the same I believe _you_ could do it and not lose--lose----" "Dignity?" "No--I don't know what I mean. Come, Mr. Quarren; I am waiting for you to do something silly." "Shall I say it or do it?" "Either." "Then I'll recite something very, very precious--subtly, intricately, and psychologically precious." "Oh, please do!" "It's--it's about a lover." She blushed. "Do you mind?" "You _are_ the limit! Of course I don't!" "It's about a lady, too." "Naturally." "And love--rash, precipitate, unwarranted, unrequited, and fatal love." "I can stand it if you can," she said with the faintest glimmer of malice in her smile. "All right. The title is: '_Oh, Love! Oh, Why?_'" "A perfectly good title," she said gravely. "I alway says 'why?' to Love." So he bowed to her and began very seriously: "Oh, Lover in haste, beware of Fate! Wait for a moment while I relate A harrowing tragedy up to date Of innate Hate. "A maiden rocked on her rocking-chair; Her store-curls stirred in the summer air; An amorous Fly espied her there, So rare and fair. "Before she knew where she was at, He'd kissed the maiden where she sat, And she batted him one which slapped him flat Ker-spat! Like that! "Oh, Life! Oh, Death! Oh, swat-in-the-eye! Beyond the Bournes of the By-and-By, Spattered the soul of that amorous Fly. Oh, Love! Oh, Why?" She pretended to be overcome by the tragic pathos of the poem: "I cannot bear it," she protested; "I can't endure the realism of that spattered soul. Why not let her wave him away and have him plunge headlong onto a sheet of fly-paper and die a buzzing martyr?" Then, swift as a weather-vane swinging from north to south her mood changed once more and softened; and her fingers again began idling among the keys, striking vague harmonies. He came across the room and stood looking down over her shoulder; and after a moment her hands ceased stirring, fell inert on the keys.