“Like that, Henry?” said Lady Heritage.
“No,” said Henry, monosyllabic in his turn.
“No one ever likes to hear the truth,” said Raymond. “You all want something pleasant, something smooth, something like this”—her fingers slipped into the “Blue Danube” waltz. She played it exquisitely, with a melting delicacy of touch and a beautiful sense of rhythm. After a dozen bars or so she stopped suddenly, leaned her elbow on the keyboard, and through the little clang of the impact said:
“Well?”
“That’s topping,” said Henry. He looked across at her admiringly—the long sweep of the ebony piano, the white keyboard with the black notes standing clear, Raymond in her velvet and pearls, and behind her the imperial yellow of China.
“Soothing syrup,” she said. “You’re not up to date, Henry, I’m afraid. The moderns show us things as they are, and we don’t like it, but the soothing syrups lose their power to soothe once you find out that they are just ... dope.”
“I wish you’d sing,” said Henry.
She looked across him at Ember, and an expression difficult to define hardened her face.
“This isn’t modern, but will you like it?” she said, and preluded. Then she began to sing in a deep mezzo:
“The Worldly Hope Men set their Hearts upon