"There is always a something," said Gartney decisively, "like the perfume of a flower, the sigh of a wind, the throb of joy in the voice of a bird, that escapes us utterly. It is felt, but cannot be communicated."
"A sad idea."
"Very sad, but alas, very true."
There was a silence between them for a few minutes, only broken by the song of the hidden bird and the ripple of notes from the piano, and then Eustace, with a deep sigh, shook off his sombre thoughts and spoke cheerfully.
"I must sing you something, Lady Errington," he said lightly, "all this conversation will make you melancholy."
"I like to feel melancholy. It's suitable to the hour."
"Then I must make my song the same," he observed gaily, and thereupon played a soft dreamy prelude, at the end of which his sweet, sympathetic voice arose tenderly on the still air:
I.
"I love a star that shines above
When day is blending with the night,