Before she could reply, Dimitrius interposed,—his face was shadowed by a stern gravity.
“No jesting with that subject, Professor!” he said. “You know my opinions. Sacred things are not suited for ordinary talk,—the issues are too grave,—the realities too absolute.”
Chauvet coughed a little cough of embarrassment, and took out a pair of spectacles from his pocket, polished them and put them back again for want of something else to do. The Marchese Farnese looked up,—his expression was eager and watchful—he was on the alert. But nothing came of his expectancy.
“Play to us again, Miss May,” continued Dimitrius in gentler accents. “You need be under no doubt as to the existence of your soul when you can express it so harmoniously.”
She coloured with pleasure, and turning again to the piano played the “Prélude” of Rachmaninoff with a verve and passion which surprised herself. She could not indeed explain why she, so lately conscious of little save the fact that she was a solitary spinster “in the way” of her would-be juvenile father, and with no one to care what became of her, now felt herself worthy of attention as a woman of talent and individuality, capable of asserting herself as such wherever she might be. The magnificent chords of the Russian composer’s despairing protest against all insignificance and meanness, rolled out from under her skilled finger-tips with all the pleading of a last appeal,—and everyone in the room, even Dimitrius himself, sat, as it were, spellbound and touched by a certain awe. An irresistible outburst of applause greeted her as she carried the brilliant finale to its close, and she rose, trembling a little with the nervous and very novel excitement of finding her musical gifts appreciated. Professor Chauvet got up slowly from his chair and came towards her.
“After that, you may lead me where you like!” he said. “I am tame and humble! I shall never disagree with a woman who can so express the pulsations of a poet’s brain,—for that is what Rachmaninoff has put in his music. Yes, chère Anglaise!—I never flatter—and you play superbly. May I call you chère Anglaise?”
“If it pleases you to do so!” she answered, smiling.
“It does please me—it pleases me very much”—he went on—“it is a sobriquet of originality and distinction. An Englishwoman of real talent is precious—therefore rare. And being rare, it follows that she is dear—even to me! Chère Anglaise, you are charming!—and if both you and I were younger I should risk a proposal!”
Everyone laughed,—no one more so than Diana.
“You must have had considerable training to be such a proficient on the piano?” inquired Farnese, with his look of almost aggressive curiosity.