like the noise of bagpipes."

"I daresay he's a Scotch," said the lady. "Scotchmen are very clever.
But I must say his songs are short."

An indignant "Hush!" from a musician with long hair who was sitting not
far off heralded the beginning of the third song. It began on a high
note, clear and loud, so that the audience was startled, and for a
moment or two there was not a whisper to be heard in the drawing-room.
Then it died away in a piteous wail like the scream of a sea-bird, and
the high insistent note came back once more, and this process seemed
to be repeated several times till the sad scream prevailed, and stopped
suddenly. A little desultory clapping was heard, but it was instantly
suppressed when the audience became aware that the song was not over.

"He's going on again," whispered the man. A low, long note was heard
like the drone of a bee, which went on, sometimes rising and sometimes
getting lower, like a strange throbbing sob; and then once more it
ceased. The audience hesitated a moment, being not quite certain whether
the music was really finished or not. Then when they saw Margaritis rise
from the piano, some meagre well-bred applause was heard, and an immense
sigh of relief. The people streamed into the other rooms, and the
conversation became loud and general.

The lady who had talked went quickly into the next room to find out what
was the right thing to say about the music, and if possible to get the
opinion of a musician.

Sir Anthony Holdsworth, who had translated Pindar, was talking to Ralph
Enderby, who had written a book on "Modern Greek Folk Lore."