of mitre and alb, and the vague tumult of the service came in contrast
with the summer murmur of London and the light of the evening skies.
The woman's body moved beneath the silk, and the faint odour of her
person dilated the nostrils of the young man. "Talk to me."

"I don't know what to talk to you about. You would not care for my
conversation any more than you do for my music--one is as bad as the
other."

"No, pray--I assure you--I would not have you think that, no." Helen
made a movement as if she were going to lay her hand on his arm;
checking herself, she said: "I do not think your playing bad; on the
contrary, perhaps I think it too good. How shall I explain? There are
times when I cannot bear music; the pleasure it brings is too near,
too intense, too near to pain; and that 'Chanson d'Eglise' seems to
bear away your very brain; you play it with such fervour, on the
violin each phrase tears the soul."

"But it is so religious."

"Yes, that is just it; no sen--no; well, there is no other word; no
sensuality is so terrible as religious sensuality."

"I don't know what you mean. I can understand any one saying that
Offenbach is sensual, but I don't see how the term can be applied to a
hymn."

"Perhaps not to a hymn, although--but 'La Chanson d'Eglise' is not a
hymn."