Something like that I would say; and it might happen that an insufferable guest (who never got asked again) would object that the hymn part was unusual in real warfare. "They sang it in this piece, anyhow," I would say stiffly, and turn my back on him and begin. But the war put a stop to music, as to many other things. For years the pianola was not played by either of us. We had other things to do. And in our case, curiously enough, absence from the pianola did not make the heart grow fonder. On the contrary, we seemed to lose our taste for music, and when at last we were restored to our pianola, we found that we had grown out of it. "It's very ugly," announced Celia. "We can't help our looks," I said in my grandmother's voice. "A book-case would be much prettier there." "But not so tuneful." "A pianola isn't tuneful if you never play it." "True," I said. Celia then became very alluring, and suggested that I might find somebody who would like to be lent a delightful pianola by somebody whose delightful wife had her eye on a delightful bookcase. "I might," I said. "Somebody," said Celia, "who isn't supplied with music from below." I found John. He was quite pleased with the idea, and promised to return the pianola when he got sick of it. So on Wednesday it went. I was not sorry, because in its silence it was far from beautiful, and we wanted another book-case badly. But on Tuesday evening--its last hours with us--I had to confess to a certain melancholy. It is sad to part with an old and well-tried friend, particularly when that friend is almost entirely responsible for your marriage. I looked at the pianola and then I said to Celia, "I must play it once again." "Please," said Celia. "The old masterpiece, I suppose?" I said, as I got it out. "Do you think you ought to--now? I don't think I want to hear a charge of the Uhlans--beasts; I want a charge of our own men." "Art," I said grandly, "knows no frontiers." I suppose this has been said by several people several times already, but for the moment both Celia and I thought it was rather clever. So I placed the roll in the pianola, sat down and began to play.... Ah, the dear old tune.... Dash it all! "What's happened?" said Celia, breaking a silence which had become alarming. "I must have put it in wrong," I said. I wound the roll off, put it in again, and tried a second time, pedalling vigorously. Dead silence.... Hush! A note ... another silence ... and then another note.... I pedalled through to the end. About five notes sounded. "Celia," I said, "this is wonderful." It really was wonderful. For the first time in its life my pianola refused to play "The Charge of the Uhlans." It had played it a hundred times before the War, but now--no! We had to have a farewell piece. I put in a waltz, and it played it perfectly. Then we said good-bye to our pianola, feeling a reverence for it which we had never felt before. * * * * *