’ ‘We are not all of us so empty-headed, Melusine,’ pleaded Miss Froxfield. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. Yes, this was a little better. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters.
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