everything I sang--Italian stornelli, old-fashioned American negro
songs, and even the very light modern French chansonnette, when there
was any melody in them. There were two other arm-chairs at the table,
destined for W. and me. I will say W. never occupied his. He would sit
for about half an hour with M. A. and talk politics or local matters
with him, but after that he departed to his own quarters, and I
remained with the old people. I felt very strange at first, it was so
unlike anything I had ever seen, so different from my home life, where
we were a happy, noisy family, always one of the party, generally two,
at the piano, everybody laughing, talking, and enjoying life, and
always a troop of visitors, cousins innumerable and friends.

It was a curious atmosphere. I can't say dull exactly, for both M. and
Mme. A. were clever, and the discussions over books, politics, and
life generally, were interesting, but it was serious, no vitality,
nothing gay, no power of enjoyment. They had had a great grief in
their lives in the loss of an only daughter,[2] which had left
permanent traces. They were very kind and did their best to make me
feel at home, and after the first few evenings I didn't mind. M. A.
had always been in the habit of reading aloud to his wife for an hour
every evening after dinner--the paper, an article in one of the
reviews, anything she liked. I liked that, too, and as I felt more at
home used to discuss everything with M. A. He was quite horrified one
evening when I said I didn't like Molière, didn't believe anybody did
(particularly foreigners), unless they had been brought up to it.

[2] W.'s first wife.

It really rather worried him. He proposed to read aloud part of the
principal plays, which he chose very carefully, and ended by making a