like fishes caught on a line. “. . . I am not a marrying man. . . .” The voices were silent; the piano waited.
“Quite good,” said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. “But now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. Fast! Ah, too Fast,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to break out—a loud, strong forte—a lament. And then in the second line, Winter Drear, make that Drear sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. Dre-ear!” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one crescendo. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure. Breaking on the first word of the last line, Passes. And then on the word, Away, you must begin to die . . . to fade . . . until The Listening Ear is nothing more than a faint whisper. . . . You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please.”
Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. Fast! Ah, too Fast. “. . . and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust———” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken
