dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if you
sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass
bumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is
still cheap.

"Who is Margaret talking to?" said Mrs. Munt, at the
conclusion of the first movement. She was again in London
on a visit to Wickham Place.

Helen looked down the long line of their party, and said
that she did not know.

"Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an
interest in?"

"I expect so," Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, and
she could not enter into the distinction that divides young
men whom one takes an interest in from young men whom one knows.

"You girls are so wonderful in always having--Oh dear!
one mustn't talk."

For the Andante had begun--very beautiful, but bearing a
family likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes that
Beethoven had written, and, to Helen's mind, rather
disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first
movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. She
heard the tune through once, and then her attention
wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or
the architecture. Much did she censure the attenuated