that were said; but some of the conversation took me quite beyond my depth.  I found Mr. Bovyer could grow eloquent over his favorite topics, which, from his phlegmatic appearance, surprised me.  He seemed thoroughly acquainted with other subjects than music, and I noticed that even Mr. Winthrop listened to his remarks with deference.  Before the evening closed Mr. Winthrop asked him for some music.  He complied so readily that I fell to contrasting his unaffected manner with that of lady musicians who, as a rule, take so much coaxing to gratify their friends’ desire for music, and their own vanity at the same time.  I noticed Mr. Winthrop settling back into his favorite position in his arm-chair—­his head thrown back and eyes closed.  Mrs. Flaxman took up her fan and held it as if shielding her eyes from the light.  I discovered afterward it was merely a pretext to conceal the emotion Mr. Bovyer usually awakened when she listened to his music.

His first touch on the piano arrested me, and I turned around to watch his face.  I recognized the air—­the opening passage from Haydn’s Creation.  I was soon spellbound, as were all the rest.  Mrs. Flaxman laid down her fan; there were no melting passages to bring tears in this symphony, descriptive of primeval darkness, and confusion of the elements, the evil spirits hurrying away from the glad, new light into their native regions of eternal night—­the thunder and storm and elemental terrors.  Presently I turned to Mr. Winthrop.  He was sitting erect in his chair, his eyes no longer closed in languorous enjoyment; when suddenly the measure changed to that delicious passage descriptive of the creation of birds.  Mr. Bovyer’s voice was a trifle too deep and powerful for the air, but it was sympathetic and rarely musical.

He ended as abruptly as he began and glided off into one of those old English glees,—­“Hail, Smiling Morn.”

Presently turning around he asked:  “Are you tired?”

“We have failed to take note of the flight of time; pray go on,” Mr. Winthrop urged.

“What do you say, Miss Selwyn?”

“I would like if you could make Mr. Winthrop cry.  If you tried very hard, you might touch his fountain of tears.”

“Bravo!  I will try,” he exclaimed amid the general laugh.  He touched the keys, and then pausing a moment, left the instrument.

“I am not in the mood to-night for such a difficult task.  I may make the attempt some stormy winter’s night at Oaklands.  I believe I have a standing invitation there,” he said, joining us around the fire.

Mr. Winthrop threw me an amazed look, but instantly recovering himself he said heartily:—­“The invitation holds good during the term of our natural lives.  The sooner it is accepted the more delighted we shall be.”

Mr. Bovyer bowed his thanks, and coming to my side asked if I would care to attend another concert the following evening.

“It depends on what the music is to be.  I am not so sensitive as Mr. Winthrop to a few false notes now and then.  The composer has more power to give me pain than the performers, I believe.”