Chapter 17

CHAPTER XVII.

Ivor brought his hands down with a bang on to the final chord of
his rhapsody. There was just a hint in that triumphant harmony
that the seventh had been struck along with the octave by the
thumb of the left hand; but the general effect of splendid noise
emerged clearly enough. Small details matter little so long as
the general effect is good. And, besides, that hint of the
seventh was decidedly modern. He turned round in his seat and
tossed the hair back out of his eyes.

"There," he said. "That's the best I can do for you, I'm
afraid."

Murmurs of applause and gratitude were heard, and Mary, her large
china eyes fixed on the performer, cried out aloud, "Wonderful!"
and gasped for new breath as though she were suffocating.

Nature and fortune had vied with one another in heaping on Ivor
Lombard all their choicest gifts. He had wealth and he was
perfectly independent. He was good looking, possessed an
irresistible charm of manner, and was the hero of more amorous
successes than he could well remember. His accomplishments were
extraordinary for their number and variety. He had a beautiful
untrained tenor voice; he could improvise, with a startling
brilliance, rapidly and loudly, on the piano. He was a good
amateur medium and telepathist, and had a considerable first-hand
knowledge of the next world. He could write rhymed verses with
an extraordinary rapidity. For painting symbolical pictures he
had a dashing style, and if the drawing was sometimes a little
weak, the colour was always pyrotechnical. He excelled in
amateur theatricals and, when occasion offered, he could cook
with genius. He resembled Shakespeare in knowing little Latin
and less Greek. For a mind like his, education seemed
supererogatory. Training would only have destroyed his natural
aptitudes.

"Let's go out into the garden," Ivor suggested. "It's a
wonderful night."

"Thank you," said Mr. Scogan, "but I for one prefer these still
more wonderful arm-chairs." His pipe had begun to bubble oozily
every time he pulled at it. He was perfectly happy.

Henry Wimbush was also happy. He looked for a moment over his
pince-nez in Ivor's direction and then, without saying anything,
returned to the grimy little sixteenth-century account books
which were now his favourite reading. He knew more about Sir
Ferdinando's household expenses than about his own.

The outdoor party, enrolled under Ivor's banner, consisted of
Anne, Mary, Denis, and, rather unexpectedly, Jenny. Outside it
was warm and dark; there was no moon. They walked up and down
the terrace, and Ivor sang a Neapolitan song: "Stretti,
stretti"--close, close--with something about the little Spanish
girl to