whom she detested—sent some tickets for a
concert given by a musical society to which he
belonged, and one of these was presented to Miss
Carrington, the other two being retained by her
host and hostess. It was a wonderful society.
Its members were as proficient as professionals,
and ten times as technical. They were entirely
absorbed in music. Their real professions—
when they had any—were comparatively as
nothing to them. They must get through their
business, whatever it might be, and then to
fugue. When two of them met, no matter where
it might be, one took the other aside, and it was
a question of music directly. He had been to
Germany or to Paris; had heard an old piece
by Spohr, or a new piece by Wagner.

"There's a movement, my dear fellow, goes
like this, 'la, la, la, ri, ta, ta, ra.' Oh, the
divinest thing you ever heard in all your life;
and then it goes on, ' ta, la, ra, ti, la, ri, la.'"
And so they would continue for half an hour
together. In short, their souls were in it, and
they went at it with a will.

But the harmony produced by the combined
talent of this wondrous society made no impression
upon  Miss Carrington. When the first
violin, coming forward to the front of the
orchestra, and, getting his instrument well
underneath  his chin, caused it to emit sounds
so prodigious in volume—considering its size—
or so tenderly plaintive as to move the greater
part of the audience alternately to wonder and
to tears, the sounds produced by this brilliant
performer awakened no response in Miss Carrington's
bosom. Even when it came to the strong
passages, and Mr. Julius Lethwaite took his
place behind two brilliantly polished copper
drums, looking as eager as Fieschi may have done
behind his infernal machine, and keeping his eye
upon his conductor as fixedly as if he were going
to let the said drums off at him at a given
moment, and when the moment did come, and
the machines were let off, and, instead of
discharging volleys of grape and slugs and crooked
nails, emitted a low rumbling sound like distant
thunder—even then, and when the drums, at a
later period, got excited and rattled their very
loudest, till the conductor was compelled to look
towards Mr. Lethwaite with a slight frown—
even at these times, let it be frankly owned, Miss
Carrington was never moved to admiration, but
only to say, in reference to Mr. Lethwaite, and
his exertions in the orchestra, that she "wondered
any man could make such a fool of himself."

Now all this was not agreeable. And then
she was so fidgety that there was no possibility
of keeping her quiet for ten minutes together.
Mr. Penmore had arranged, with considerable
skill, that his wife should sit between him and
Miss Carrington, as he knew that if she sat next
to him she would not let him alone the whole
evening. This state of things was, however, by
no means agreeable to the lady, and in due time
she began to agitate for a change in the relative
positions of the party. " There was a gentleman
sitting  next her," she said, " who would
hum the music to himself as the orchestra played
it, and it was too dreadful." And then came the
request—" would Mrs. Penmore mind changing
places with her, as the effect upon her nerves
was such that she must either get out of hearing
of  the obligato accompaniment, or leave the
concert-room." Of course poor Gabrielle had
to give way, and we all know what such a change
of position involves in these days of distended
costume. Then, of course, having gained her
point, she would begin ear-wigging the unfortunate
Gilbert, much to his annoyance and to that of
their neighbours, who were all fierce amateurs,
eager to catch every note of the performance.
Indeed, these at last began to look round and
frown to such an extent, that Gilbert was obliged
at last to call his cousin's attention to the fact,
upon which the lady lapsed into sulkiness, and
then fell asleep, and, waking shortly afterwards,
declared that she was feeling very ill, and that
"she was very sorry, but she must go away that
moment." The first violin was at the time in
the middle of a solo, impregnated with so much
feeling as to be hardly audible, and it may be
imagined that the looks of the amateurs were
not very amiable as our little party swept out,
disturbing everybody in the vicinity, knocking
down opera-glasses, dragging books of the score
in their wake, and spreading ruin and desolation
in all directions.

"Could not you have waited till there was a
strong passage with the drums to cover pur
retreat?" asked Gilbert, with pardonable irritability,
when they got outside.

Miss Carrington intimated that she should
have fainted if she had stayed another moment,
but said that she felt pretty well again now.

And so poor Gabrielle, who seldom got a
change, was dragged away, just as she was enjoying
the music most. Yet there was consolation
even in this, for it vexed her always to see
Miss Carrington making that dead set at her
cousin Gilbert.

"We are just talking over our remembrances
of a certain concert that we went to ages ago,"
Miss Carrington had whispered to Gabrielle some
little time after that change of seats had taken
place, which has been spoken of above. "Such fun
we had, and such a nice drive home," Miss Carrington
added. " By moonlight, you know."

Now all this, I am sorry to say, was pure
fiction—that sort of fiction which came so naturally
to Miss Carrington, as has been hinted at
in the beginning of this chapter. The fact had
been, that when Gilbert Penmore visited his relation,
Mr. Carrington, a party had been made to
attend a concert which was got up in the
neighbouring town. The company had driven some
miles to the town-hall, where the concert was
held, had been bored to death by some exceedingly
dull music, and had then driven back again.
The carriage in which Miss Carrington
had performed that delightful journey, having
contained, besides her father, the clergyman of
the parish, and young Penmore, the latter
slumbering peacefully all the time. Such was the
fact. But Miss Carrington's remembrance of it
was somewhat different.