of the fullness of their hearts. It has been one of the things I never
forgot, a standard, and a standard that most music produced on platforms
before costly audiences doesn't come up to."

"I've never been able to make anything out of music, myself," confessed
Mr. Welles. "Perhaps you can convert me. I almost believe so."

"'Gene Powers sings!" cried Marise spiritedly. "And if he does . . ."

"Any relation to the lively old lady who brings our milk?"

"Her son. Haven't you seen him yet? A powerfully built granite rock of a
man. Silent as a granite rock too, as far as small talk goes. But he
turns out to have a bass voice that is my joy. It's done something for
him, too, I think, really and truly, without sentimental exaggeration at
all. He suffered a great injustice some six or seven years ago, that
turned him black and bitter, and it's only since he has been singing in
our winter choir that he has been willing to mix again with anyone."

She paused for a moment, and eyed them calculatingly. It occurred to her
that she had been talking about music and herself quite enough. She
would change the subject to something matter-of-fact. "See here, you'll
be sure to have to hear all that story from Mr. Bayweather in relentless
detail. It might be your salvation to be able to say that I had told
you, without mentioning that it was in a severely abridged form. He'd
want to start back in the eighteenth century, and tell you all about
that discreditable and unreconstructed Tory ancestor of mine who, when
he was exiled from Ashley, is said to have carried off part of the town
documents with him to Canada. Whether he did or not (Mr. Bayweather has
a theory, I believe, that he buried them in a copper kettle on Peg-Top