“The guitar? The harp is your instrument of improvisation.”
“No! the guitar; I know what I am saying,” and, receiving it from the hands of her husband, she sat down, and while an arch smile hovered under the black fringes of her half-closed eyelids, and about the corners of her slightly parted lips, she began strumming a queer prelude, and then, like a demented minstrel, struck up one of the oddest inventions in the shape of a ballad that was ever sung out of Bedlam.
Philip listened with undisguised astonishment and irrepressible mirth, which presently broke bounds in a ringing peal of laughter. Marguerite paused and waited until his cachinnations should be over, with a gravity that almost provoked him to a fresh peal, but he restrained himself, as he wished the ballad to go on, and Marguerite recommenced and continued uninterrupted through about twenty stanzas, each more extravagant than the other, until the last one set Philip off again in a convulsion of laughter.
“Thalia,” he said; “Thalia as well as Melpomene.”
“This is the very first comic piece I have ever attempted—the first time that the laughing muse has visited me,” said Marguerite, laying down her guitar, and approaching the side of her husband.
“And I alone have heard it! So I would have it, Marguerite. I almost detest that any other should enjoy your gifts and accomplishments.”
“Egotist!” she exclaimed, but with the fond, worshiping tone and manner, wherewith she might have said, “Idol!”
“So you like my music, Philip?”
“How can you ask, my love? Your music delights me, as all you ever say and do always must.”
“I have heard that ever when the lute and voice of an improvvisatrice has chained her master, she has the dear privilege of asking a boon that he may not deny her,” said Marguerite, in the same light, jesting tone, under which it was impossible to detect a substratum of deep, terrible earnestness.