XIII


Hubert felt called upon to entertain his friends, and one evening they all
sat dining at Hurlingham in the long room. The conversation, as usual, had
been about books and pictures.

It was the moment when strings of lanterns were hoisted from tree to tree.
In front of a large space of sky the coloured globes were crude and
trivial; but in the shadows of the trees by the river, where the mist rose
into the branches, they had begun to awaken the first impression of
melancholy and the sadness of _fête_. It was the moment when the great
trees hung heavy and motionless, strangely green and solemn beneath a
slate-coloured sky; and the plaintive waltz cried on Hungarian
fiddle-strings, till it seemed the soul of this feminine evening. The
fashionable crowd had moved out upon the lawn; the white dresses were
phantom blue, and the men's coats faded into obscure masses, darkening the
gathering shadows. It was the moment when voices soften, and every heart,
overpowered with yearning, is impelled to tell of grief and disillusion;
and every moment the wail of the fiddles grew more unbearable, tearing the
heart to its very depths.

Author and actor-manager walked up the lawn puffing at their cigars. The
others sat watching, knowing that the opportunity had come for criticism of
their friend.

'He does not change much,' said Harding. 'Circumstances haven't affected