London! The black endless streets--the dreadful Sundays--the hundreds
of thousands of people, always in a hurry; always with grim faces set
on business, business, business! I was glad to go back and be married
in Italy. And here I am in London again, after God knows how many
years. No matter. We will enjoy ourselves to-day; and when we go to
Madam Gallilee's to-morrow, we will tell a little lie, and say we only
arrived on the evening that has not yet come."

The duenna's sense of humour was so tickled by this prospective view of
the little lie, that she leaned back in her chair and laughed.
Carmina's rare smile showed itself faintly. The terrible first
interview with the unknown aunt still oppressed her. She took up a
newspaper in despair. "Oh, my old dear!" she said, "let us get out of
this dreadful room, and be reminded of Italy!" Teresa lifted her ugly
hands in bewilderment. "Reminded of Italy--in London?"

"Is there no Italian music in London?" Carmina asked suggestively.

The duenna's bright eyes answered this in their own language. She
snatched up the nearest newspaper.

It was then the height of the London concert season. Morning
performances of music were announced in rows. Reading the advertised
programmes, Carmina found them, in one remarkable respect, all alike.
They would have led an ignorant stranger to wonder whether any such
persons as Italian composers, French composers, and English composers
had ever existed. The music offered to the English public was music of
exclusively German (and for the most part modern German) origin.
Carmina held the opinion--in common with Mozart and Rossini, as well as
other people--that music without melody is not music at all. She laid