"He's distinctly clever," Blythe was saying; "the songs are amusing
'pastiches' of Eastern folk song."
"Yes, I think he's clever," said Lawson, "but there's nothing original
in it, and besides, as I expect you noticed, two of the songs were gross
plagiarisms of De Bussy."
"Clever, but not original," said the lady to herself. "That's it." And
two hostesses who had overheard this conversation made up their minds
to get Margaritis for their parties, for they scented the fact that he
would ultimately be talked about. But most of the people did not discuss
the music at all.
As soon as the music had stopped, James Reddaway, who was a Member of
Parliament, left the house and went home. He was engrossed in politics,
and had little time at his disposal for anything else. As soon as he got
home he went up to his wife's bedroom; she had not been able to go to
the party owing to a sudden attack of neuralgia. She asked him to tell
her all about it.
"Well," he said, "there were the usual people there, and there was some
music: some violin and piano playing, to which I didn't listen. After
that a man sang some Greek songs, and a curious thing happened to me.
When it began I felt my head swimming, and then I entirely lost account
of my surroundings. I forgot the party, the drawing-room and the people,
and I seemed to be sitting on the rocks of a cliff near a small bay; in
front of me was the sea: it was a kind of blue green, but far more blue
or at least of quite a different kind of blue than any I have seen.
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