The summer moon poured on Farniente its soft endearing lunacy. The terrace, where Nyla and the Colonel were sitting out this dance, was a milky twilight; from the ballroom came the sweet innuendo of the latest Viennese waltz. Tilyria is haunted with music. It sounds in chorus from village inns, it chimes from old belfries, gypsies fiddle under vineyard arbours, even the cowbells in mountain pastures cry a queer elvish clang. The Colonel can be pardoned if in that perfect blend of evening and congenial company he had laid aside international cares for a moment. The music in the ballroom ceased; he took out his mouth-organ and repeated the air, which his quick ear had accurately caught.
"I wish they wouldn't play such emotional tunes," he remarked. "It makes the roots grow so quickly."
