“So am I,” said Mrs. Clarke, in a voice that sounded more husky even than usual. “She sang that Greek song quite beautifully. I’ve just been telling her that I want to show her some curious songs I have heard in Turkey, and Asia Minor, at Brusa. There was one man who used to sing to me at Brusa outside the Mosquee Verte. Dumeny took down the melody for me.”
“Did you like the ‘Heart ever faithful’?”
“Of course it’s excellent in that sledge-hammer sort of way, a superb example of the direct. Stamboul is very indirect. Perhaps it has colored my taste. It’s full of mystery. Bach isn’t mysterious, except now and then—in rare bits of his passion music, for instance.”
“I wonder if my wife could sing those Turkish songs.”
“We must see. She sang that Greek song perfectly.”
“But she’s felt Greece,” said Dion. “And I think there’s something in her that——”
“Yes?”
“I only mean,” he said, with reserve in his voice, “that I think there’s something of Greece in her.”
“She’s got a head like a Caryatid.”
“Yes,” he said, with much less reserve. “Hasn’t she?”