"but of course it is all wrong on a piano. It requires the organ and sweet boys' voices."
"We have anthems in the church here," said Mr. Smith. "We have even done masses."
"How exquisite!" said Amarinth. "A village mass. There is something beautifully original in the notion. Ah! Mr. Smith, if your boys could have done Lord Reggie's anthem they would have learnt the doctrine of music."
"Perhaps they—would it be possible—on Sunday?" Mr. Smith said, glowing gently.
Amarinth got up, dropping his cigarette end into his finger bowl.
"Reggie, we have found a true artist in Chenecote," he said. "Play Mr. Smith your purple notes, and I will go and take my coffee on the lawn. The moon washes the night with silver, and, thank Heaven! there are no nightingales to ruin the music of the stillness with their well-meant but ill-produced voices. Nature's songster is the worst sort of songster I know."
He walked with an ample softness into the little hall, and passed out through the French windows of the drawing room into the shadowy garden.
On the lawn he found Lady Locke sitting
