“Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that rot—but I like some tune to my music.”
“Well, you’re going to get it now,” said Braith; “the band are taking their places. Now for La Belle Hélène.” He glanced at Gethryn, who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his program.
The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission.
They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton.
A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand, and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel.
Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. Gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes.
Oui c’est un rêve;
Un rêve doux d’amour—
The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions.
Suddenly the little Mirror man’s eyes bulged out, he stiffened and grasped Braith’s arm; his fingers were like iron.
“What the deuce!” began Braith, but, following the other’s eyes, he became silent and stern.