Beware equally of a sudden friend and a slow enemy.

A wise man had said of Cipriani de Lloseta that had he not been a
Count he would have been a great musician. He had that singular
facility with any instrument which is sometimes given to musical
persons in recompense for voicelessness. The Count spoke like one
who could sing, but his throat was delicate, and so the world lost a
great singer. Of most instruments he spoke with a half-concealed
contempt. But of the violin he said nothing. He was not a man to
turn the conversational overflow upon self-evident facts.

He invariably brought his violin to Grosvenor Gardens when Mrs.
Harrington invited him, in her commanding way, to dine. It amused
Mrs. Harrington to accompany his instrument on the piano. Her music
was of the accompanying order. It was heartless and correct. Some
of us, by the way, have friends of this same order, and, like Mrs.
Harrington's music, they are not in themselves either interesting or
pleasant.

The piano stood in the inner drawing-room, and thither the Count and
Mrs. Harrington repaired when the gentlemen had joined the ladies.
In the larger drawing-room Luke was fortunate enough to secure a
seat near to Agatha--quite near, and a long way from Mrs. Ingham-
Baker, digestively asleep in an armchair.

He did not exactly know how this arrangement was accomplished--it
seemed to come. Possibly Agatha knew.

Mrs. Harrington struck a keynote and began playing the prelude of a
piece well known to them both.