Charm, not argument, was
to be her forte.
Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals.
Some one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a
Being not visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her
soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must
go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men."
But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother
would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had
moved a little since the morning, would never be hidden behind
the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had
seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory the music
of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches,
beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains,
never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of
fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience
began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called
out: "Now play us the other garden--the one in Parsifal.
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