The starlit melancholy of a Nocturne flowed from Mademoiselle Ludérac's fingers. Tears, languor, protestation, a folding, cloud-like acquiescence were in it, and Jill saw that she seemed to yield herself to it, yet to hold herself aloof; resolute and dispassionate.
'Ah, it breaks one's heart, that music!' cried Madame de Lamouderie. 'It makes one wish to weep all the tears of one's body.' She looked at Graham; but he was not listening to her. From under gloomy brows he gazed at Mademoiselle Ludérac. The old lady laid her fan against his arm. 'Does it not break even your hard heart, Milord Byron?'
Dick looked round and down at her; coldly. It was still as if he did not hear her, though he smiled response.
'My heart?—It does something to me. But Chopin leaves my heart intact.'
'What experience is there that does not leave your heart intact! You are of stone!—Of cold, hard marble!'
Graham still smiled, but he made no reply and Jill saw a shade of dissatisfaction cloud the old lady's radiance.
'Is that enough?' Mademoiselle Ludérac glanced over at them again.
'Oh, no! Not nearly enough!' cried Jill, and Graham said, looking at Madame de Lamouderie and not at their musician: 'May we hear some César Franck?'
'But by all means! César Franck, Marthe. He is dreary; like a consecrated wafer; beneficent, perhaps;
