The last thing that Jerome sung was Zelter’s glorious song, Infelice in tanto affani. When he had finished it, when the last piercing, heart-breaking notes had died away, the despairing
‘Ho, perduto!
Il mio tesoro!
Tuttu—tuttu fini!’
he rose quickly from the piano, and closed it, observing:
‘I quite forgot myself. I am afraid I have been inflicting myself upon you.’
John Leyburn rose too.
‘What a lucky dog you are, Wellfield, to have that voice. Amongst more impressionable people than the English, you could charm hearts away with it, I am sure.’
‘I do not understand music,’ observed Aunt Margaret, rising also, ‘and I am going.’
Mr. Bolton’s voice then came from afar, pedantic and particular as usual.