An Elma, too; name runs in the family. But she composes
wonderfully. Everything she writes is in that mystic key. It sounds
like a reminiscence of some dim and lamp-lit eastern temple. The
sort of thing a nautch-girl might bo supposed to compose, to sing
to the clash and clang of cymbals, while she was performing the
snake-dance before some Juggernaut idol!"
"Exactly," Guy answered, shutting his eyes dreamily. "That's just
the very picture it brings up before my mind's eye--as you render
it, Nevitt. I seem to see vague visions of some vast and dimly-lighted
rock-hewn cavern, with long vistas of pillars cut from the solid
stone, while dark-limbed priestesses, clad in white muslin robes,
swing censers in the foreground to solemn music. Upon my word,
the power of sound is something simply wonderful. There's almost
nothing, I believe, good music wouldn't drive me to--or rather lead
me to; for it sways one and guides even more than it impels one."
"And yet," Nevitt mused, in slow tones to himself, taking up his
violin again, and drawing his bow over the chords, with half-closed
eyes, in a seemingly listless, aimless manner, "I don't believe
music's your real first love, Guy. You took it up only to be different
from Cyril.
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