"Worth a dozen of those melancholy
tunes on the harp, in my opinion. By-the-bye, what's become of Miss
Latouche? Couldn't stand this sort of thing, I suppose. Too merry for
her. What a pity such a handsome girl should mope so."
"Miss Latouche appears to be rather eccentric," I interposed. "Something
of a genius, I imagine?"
"So they all say. Well, she is a clever girl, certainly--only--but you
will soon find out what she is like. Here's Tommy going to give us that
capital song about the bad cigar. Ever heard it? No? Ha! ha! It will
make you laugh then."
That is just what I hate about a comic performance. One laughs under
compulsion. If one is sufficiently independent to resist, one incurs the
suspicion of being wanting in humour and some well-meaning friend feels
bound to explain the joke until one forces a little hollow mirth.
Directly the song was in full swing, and the audience convulsed with
merriment, I seized my opportunity and fled from the drawing-room. In
the library I knew by experience that I should find a good fire and a
comfortable arm-chair, both of which would be acceptable after my long
journey. It was separated from the rest of the house by a heavy baize
door and a long passage, so that I was not likely to be disturbed by
any stray revellers. Several years' experience of the comforts of a
bachelor establishment has given me a great taste for my own society,
and it was with unfeigned delight that I looked forward to a quiet
half-hour in this haven of refuge.
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