"To-day?"
"Not exactly to-day. I've got some other things to think about."
"Such as?"
"Well, I expect you're going to be invited here to dinner pretty soon?"
"So? I've been invited here to dinner before this."
"But another day has come. A new light has risen. I haven't seen it, but I've heard it. I've heard it sing."
"A light singing? Aren't you getting mixed?"
"Oh, I don't know. There was Viollet-le-Duc and the rose-window of Notre Dame. They took him there as a child for a choral service, and he thought it was the rose itself that sang. And there was Petrarch, and the young Milton—both talking about 'melodious tears'—and something of the same sort in 'The Blessed Damosel.' And——"
"A psychological catch for which there ought to be a name. Perhaps there is a name."
"Well, as I say, the light rose, shone, and sang. I didn't see it—I never see anybody. But his voice came up here quite distinctly. It seemed good to have a man in the house. Those everlasting girls—I hope he wasn't bothering to sing for them."
"He probably was. How did it go?"
"Very well indeed."
"What kind of voice?"
"Oh, baritone, I suppose you'd call it."
"And he sang sentimental rubbish?"
"Not at all. Really good things."
