Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to
be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request
amongst his father's friends at evening entertainments. He could
also play the piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself
thereon. He sang to himself when he was travelling, and often
murmured favourite airs when people around him were talking. He had
lessons from an old Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, who
was not very proud of his pupil. 'He is a talent,' said the Signor,
'and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad at a party, but a
musician? no!' and like all mere 'talents' Frank failed in his songs
to give them just what is of most value--just that which separates an
artistic performance from the vast region of well-meaning,
respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a curious lack
in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest of
himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something
which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was
not the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful
in many ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven
was genuine, but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which
the sonatas and symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into
raptures over the slow movement in the C minor Symphony, but no C
minor slow movement was discernible in his character.

'What on earth can be found in "St Paul" which can be put to music?'
said Madge. 'Fancy a chapter in the Epistle to the Romans turned
into a duet!'

'Madge! Madge! I am ashamed of you,' said her mother.