At this point a servant entered and announced dinner.
At table the conversation shifted from philosophy and politics to art. The ladies tried to cheer the old gentleman and banish his despair. Elizabeth talked of the concerts in Simla and Calcutta, mentioning the great technical difficulties which beset music in India, owing to the instruments being so soon injured by the climate. The moist air of the towns on the coast made the wood swell; the dry air of Central India, on the other hand, made it shrink, which was very injurious to pianos, but especially to violins and cellos. Pianos, with metal instead of wood inside, were made for the tropics; but they had a shrill tone and were equally affected by abrupt changes of temperature.
After dinner Elizabeth seated herself at the piano, and it did Heideck good to find that Edith had a pleasant and well-trained alto voice. She sang some melancholy English and Scotch songs.
“I have never sung since I left England,” she said, greatly moved.
Heideck had listened to the music with rapture. After the fearful scenes of recent times the melodies affected him so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. It was not only the music that affected him, but Edith’s soul, which spoke through it.
“What are you thinking of doing, Mr. Kennedy?” he asked the old gentleman. “Shall you remain in Simla and keep Mrs. Irwin with you?”
“I have thought it over,” he replied. “I shall not stay here. I shall go to Calcutta, if I can. It is my duty to be at my post there.”
“But how do you intend to travel? The railways still in existence have been seized for the exclusive use of the army. Remember that you would have to pass both armies, the Russian and the English. You would have to go from Kalka to Ambala, and thence to Delhi.”
“If I could get a passport, I could travel post to Delhi, where I should be with the English army. Can you get me a passport?”
“I will try. Possibly Prince Tchajawadse may be persuaded to let me have one. I will point out to him that you are civilian officials.”