Aaron quite liked mushrooms, and helped himself to the entrée.
"But perhaps," said she, "you are too modern. You don't care for Bach or Beethoven or Chopin—dear Chopin."
"I find them all quite as modern as I am."
"Is that so! Yes. For myself I am quite old-fashioned—though I can appreciate Strauss and Stravinsky as well, some things. But my old things—ah, I don't think the moderns are so fine. They are not so deep. They haven't fathomed life so deeply." Lady Franks sighed faintly.
"They don't care for depths," said Aaron.
"No, they haven't the capacity. But I like big, deep music. Oh, I love orchestra. But my instrument is the piano. I like the great masters. Bach, Beethoven. They have such faith. You were talking of faith—believing that things would work out well for you in the end. Beethoven inspires that in me, too."
"He makes you feel that all will be well with you at last?"
"Yes, he does. He makes me feel faith in my personal destiny. And I do feel that there is something in one's special fate. I feel that I myself have a special kind of fate, that will always look after me."
"And you can trust to it?"
"Yes, I can. It always turns out right. I think something has gone wrong—and then, it always turns out right. Why when we were in London—when we were at lunch one morning it suddenly struck me, haven't I left my fur cloak somewhere? It was rather cold, so I had taken it with me, and then never put it on. And I hadn't brought it home. I had left it somewhere. But whether in a taxi, or in a shop, or in a little show of pictures I had been to, I couldn't remember. I could not remember. And I thought to myself: have I lost my cloak? I went round to everywhere I could think of: no trace of it. But I didn't give it up. Something prompted me not to give it up: quite distinctly, I felt something telling me that I should get it back. So I called at Scotland Yard and gave the information. Well, two days later I had a notice from Scotland Yard, so I went. And there was my
