"But surely you haven't forgotten the drum steadily
beating on the low C, Aunt Juley?" came Tibby's voice. "No
one could. It's unmistakable."

"A specially loud part?" hazarded Mrs. Munt. "Of course
I do not go in for being musical," she added, the shot
failing. "I only care for music--a very different thing.
But still I will say this for myself--I do know when I like
a thing and when I don't. Some people are the same about
pictures. They can go into a picture gallery--Miss Conder
can--and say straight off what they feel, all round the
wall. I never could do that. But music is so different to
pictures, to my mind. When it comes to music I am as safe
as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means pleased
by everything. There was a thing--something about a faun in
French--which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought
it most tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to
my opinion too."

"Do you agree?" asked Margaret. "Do you think music is
so different to pictures?"

"I--I should have thought so, kind of," he said.

"So should I. Now, my sister declares they're just the
same. We have great arguments over it. She says I'm dense;
I say she's sloppy." Getting under way, she cried: "Now,
doesn't it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts
if they are interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if