“Now, there,” said Barney jubilantly, seating Langly before the grand piano, with its great lid like a dragon’s wing propped up, “there’s all the sheet music any reasonable man can want; but if you prefer anything else I’ll send out for it; and there’s the piano—‘Come let us hear its tune,’ as the poet says.”
The rugs which usually covered the waxed floor had been cleared away; the chairs had been shoved into corners and against the wall. There was much laughter and many protestations that they had not come prepared for a dance, but all were quite noticeably eager for the fun to begin.
“You see, you are in Bohemia,” cried Barney, beaming joyously on his many guests, “and the delight of Bohemia is unconventionality. I danced after the theatre till daylight this morning, and I am as ready as ever to begin again. Shall we not lunch because we have breakfasted, and because we dine at seven? Not so. I am ready for a dance any time of the night or day. Now, Mr. Musician, strike up. ‘On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!’ as the poet says.”
Langly could not have played out of time or tune if he tried. The piano, as Barney had truly said, was a splendid instrument, and when the gay waltz music filled the large room, each couple began to float lightly over the polished floor. The musician played on and on, mechanically yet brilliantly, and in the pauses between the dances more than one of the guests spoke to their host of the music’s excellence.
“Oh, yes,” said Barney, with a jaunty wave of the hand, “he’s one of my finds. The man’s a genius, don’t you know, and is in music what I am myself in painting.”
“Barney, you always lay it on too thick,” said one of the young men. “You’ll turn the pianist’s head with flattery, if he knows you consider him as clever as yourself.”
“Perhaps you imagine I’m too dense to see through that remark,” said Barney, with the condescension of true genius. “I know your sneering ways: but let me tell you what I meant was that both the musician and myself are unrecognized by the mob of commonplace people of whom you are so distinguished a representative.” (“I flatter myself I had him there,” whispered Barney, aside, to the lady on his right.) “Yes, my boy, the day will come when you will be proud to say you were invited to these receptions, which I intend to make one of the artistic features of London society.”
“Why, Barney,” protested the young man, “I’m proud of it now. I make myself objectionable in all my clubs by continually bragging that you smile upon me. I claim that you are in art what the Universal Provider is in commerce.”
“Do get him to play something while we are resting,” murmured the lady, thus pouring oil on the troubled waters.
Langly sat at the piano, a disconsolate figure, paying no attention to the hum of conversation around him. His thoughts were far away, in the squalid room where the dead girl lay. Barney bustled up to him, and the musician came to himself with a start on being spoken to.