“It’s a pity her programme is so old-fashioned,” said the young lady of the office, passing his chair to give an order to the page. “It’s true only the elderly people went in, but our week-enders are very up-to-date in everything. There’s a lot of Londoners here, and those from Torquay are frightfully musical. If they don’t get Debewssy, it seems they think nothing of the programme.”
“Well, I confess that Debussy seems a trifle alien to this time and place,” said Appleton, “and these old ballads suit my taste much better. I think I’ll take a nearer view.”
He shoved his pipe into its case and strolled down the corridor, pausing behind the heavy velvet portières that shut off the drawing-room. There was no buzz of conversation going on, because there was not a sufficient number of persons to buzz. A very quiet, stodgy audience it was, with no friendly grouping; just a few old gentlemen here and a few old ladies there, sometimes with their prematurely aged and chastened paid companions by their sides. There were some girls of fifteen or sixteen, too, scattered about, a few of them accompanied by prim governesses.
Appleton heard the entrance of some one from the anteroom beyond the grand piano, then a few chords, struck by hands that loved the ivory keys and evoked a reciprocal tenderness every time they touched them; then:
| “Near Woodstock Town in Oxfordshire As I walked forth to take the air, To view the fields and meadows round, Methought I heard a mournful sound.” |
So the chronicle ran on until the crisis came:
| “The lady round the meadow ran, And gathered flowers as they sprang. Of every sort she there did pull Until she got her apron full.” |
The history of the distracted lady’s unhappy passion persevered:
| “The green ground served her as a bed, The flowers a pillow for her head. She laid her down and nothing spoke. Alas! for love her heart was broke.” |