But in the matter of dates Canon Alington readily recognised the immense superiority of the guest’s knowledge, particularly in musical matters. She knew quite unerringly when Wagner was born, when Schubert died, how old Mozart was when he wrote the Jupiter Symphony, and in what year “Faust” was first presented. Nor was her knowledge confined to these bones, so to speak, of music. She herself had composed, and her compositions had been both published and sung, so that on the first page of the Daily Telegraph one was liable to see that “Galahad’s Good-night” (words and music to Gladys Owen) would be sung at the Drill Hall, Hastings, on the 12th. Her songs were mostly written in what is known as “waltz-time,” which when taken andante is meltingly pathetic, especially when there is a change to the minor in the second and middle part. They were, with the exception of “Galahad’s Good-night,” which was markedly religious throughout, based rather on one general plan. People met (long ago) in the first verse in an orchard or a meadow in which bowers generally rhymed with flowers, and were very loving and light-hearted; tribulations and sorrow (in the minor key) overtook them in the second verse, which was slower and in four time; while in the third, to the accompaniment of grave octaves from the left hand and arpeggios from the right, and the resumption of slow waltz-time, the tremulous hope was expressed that they would meet again “above.” They were equally suitable for either male or female voices (with the exception again of “Galahad’s Good-night”), for the sentiments expressed were perfectly creditable to those of either sex, and there was always an alternative high note on the word “heaven,” or “above,” or “love,” at the end of the third verse, where the tenor could crack the roof or burst himself if he felt inclined. Then the arpeggios ceased, and two or three loud thumps all over the piano denoted the accomplishment of their desires.
Mrs. Owen was tall, rather thin, not exactly pretty, but, as everybody said, she had a very sweet expression. She had pale blue eyes, and even when she was talking on the most grave and serious subjects her mouth was generally smiling, which, no doubt, was largely responsible for the sweet expression. When she laughed, which she often did, she quite closed her eyes, and sometimes she clapped her hands softly at that which had amused her. She always dressed in pale, soft colours, cut in a somewhat Greek and classical style, and wore as ornaments a necklace of Greek silver coins and a couple of bracelets composed of the same. Her hair, too, was braided something in the Greek manner, and the flower or two that she wore in it was secured by a Venetian ducat of the dogeship of one of the Mocenigos. Throughout the dinner the conversation had ranged over an infinite variety of topics, deep calling unto deep, and now toward the end, after the Royal Academy, the New Gallery, and the Opera (for she had only just returned from a whole month in London), the drama was being discussed.
“Yes, I adore the theatre,” she was saying, “but London really has been such a whirl that I did not go as often as I should have wished. But I went to see ‘Gambits.’ You have seen ‘Gambits,’ Mr. Grainger?”
“Oh, yes! I have been more than once,” said he.
Mrs. Owen leaned forward.
“Now, I wonder if we agree about it. I thought it was beautiful, so pathetic, and so teaching, if I may borrow one of your words, Canon Alington. It showed us, did it not, how from misery is born misery, and how wretchedness is the result of our mistakes.”
She looked from Hugh to the Canon, whose upper lip had begun to lengthen a little.
“Oh, I am sure you are going to scold me for being a wee bit Bohemian!” she said.
“Well, Hugh agrees with you,” he said. “I should have to scold you both.”
Mrs. Owen looked down at her plate a moment. “You have seen it?” she asked.