The violinist was playing some elaborate nothings, and
displaying astounding facility, but the audience did not seem to be much
interested, for when he stopped, after some faint applause, conversation
broke loose like a torrent.
"I do hope," said some one to the lady next him, "that the music will be
over soon. One gets wedged in here, one doesn't dare move, and one had
to put up with having one's conversation spoilt and interrupted."
"It's an extraordinary thing," answered the lady, "that nobody dares
give a party in London without some kind of entertainment. It _is_ such
a mistake!"
At that moment the fourth and last item on the programme began, which
was called "Greek Songs by Heraclius Themistocles Margaritis."
"He certainly looks like a Greek," said the lady who had been talking;
"in fact if his hair was cut he would be quite good-looking."
"It's not my idea of a Greek," whispered her neighbour. "He is too fair.
I thought Greeks were dark."
"Hush!" said the lady, and the first song began. It was a strange thread
of sound that came upon the ears of the listeners, rather high and
piercing, and the accompaniment (Margaritis accompanied himself) was
twanging and monotonous like the sound of an Indian tom-tom. The same
phrase was repeated two or three times over, the melody seemed to
consist of only a very few notes, and to come over and over again with
extraordinary persistence.
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