But for the musician, music might
have been universal. The human voice is still the finest instrument
that we possess. We have allowed it to rust, the better to hear
clever manipulators blow through tubes and twang wires. The musical
world might have been a literal expression. Civilisation has
contracted it to designate a coterie."
"By the way," said the Woman of the World, "talking of music, have
you heard that last symphony of Grieg's? It came in the last
parcel. I have been practising it."
"Oh! do let us hear it," urged the Old Maid. "I love Grieg."
The Woman of the World rose and opened the piano.
"Myself, I have always been of opinion--" I remarked.
"Please don't chatter," said the Minor Poet.
CHAPTER III
"I never liked her," said the Old Maid; "I always knew she was
heartless."
"To my thinking," said the Minor Poet, "she has shown herself a true
woman."
"Really," said the Woman of the World, laughing, "I shall have to
nickname you Dr. Johnson Redivivus. I believe, were the subject
under discussion, you would admire the coiffure of the Furies.
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