Lucy reflected a moment; she then took from the canterbury a thick old book. “This was my mother's. Her taste was pure in music, as in everything. I shall be sorry if you do not all like this,” added she, softly.
It was an old mass; full, magnificent chords in long succession, strung together on a clear but delicate melody. She played it to perfection: her lovely hands seemed to grasp the chords. No fumbling in the base; no gelatinizing in the treble. Her touch, firm and masterly, yet feminine, evoked the soul of her instrument, as David had of his, and she thought of her mother as she played. These were those golden strains from which all mortal dross seems purged. Hearing them so played, you could not realize that he who writ them had ever eaten, drunk, smoked, snuffed, and hated the composer next door. She who played them felt their majesty and purity. She lifted her beaming eye to heaven as she played, and the color receded from her cheek; and when her enchantment ended she was silent, and all were silent, and their ears ached for the departed charm.
Then she looked round a mute inquiry.
Talboys applauded loudly.
But the tear stood in David's eye, and he said nothing.
“Well, David,” said Eve, reproachfully, “I'm sure if that does not please you—”
“Please me,” cried David, a little fretfully; “more shame for me if it does not. Please is not the word. It is angel music, I call it—ah!”
“Well, you need not break your heart for that: he is going to cry—ha! ha!”
“I'm no such thing,” cried David, indignantly, and blew his nose—promptly, with a vague air of explanation and defiance.
But why the male of my species blows its nose to hide its sensibility a deeper than I must decide.