“It is not necessary to go down into dust and ashes for that,” I said.
“I assure you it is!—” he answered gaily—“Positively imperative. The laurel flourishes best so,—it will not grow in a hot-house.”
At that moment Diana Chesney approached.
“Lady Elton would like to hear you sing, prince—” she said—“Will you give us that pleasure? Do! Something quite simple, you know,—it will set our nerves straight after your terribly beautiful music! You’d hardly believe it perhaps,—but I really feel quite unstrung!”
He folded his hands with a droll air of penitence.
“Forgive me!” he said, “I’m always, as the church service says, doing those things I ought not to do.”
Miss Chesney laughed, a trifle nervously.
“Oh, I forgive you!” she replied—“On condition that you sing.”
“I obey!” and with that he turned again to the piano, and playing a strange wild minor accompaniment sang the following stanzas:
Sleep, my Belovëd, sleep!