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 Mignon’s bleeding heart—nothing so harrowing. Indeed, so gay was he, so full of quaint sayings and odd views of life and things, that when Brierley sat down at the spinet and ran his fingers over the keys, giving us snatches of melodies from the current music of the day, he begged for some mediæval anthems “as a slight apology to my suffering ears,” and when Brierley complied with what he claimed was an old Italian chant, having found the original in Padua, Lemois branched off into a homily on church music which evinced such a mastery of the subject that even Brierley, who is something of a musician himself, was filled with amazement. Indeed, the discussion was in danger of becoming so heated that the old man, with a twinkle in his eye, relieved the tension with:

“No, you are quite wrong, Monsieur Brierley, if you will forgive me for saying so. Your chant is not Italian; it is Spanish. I have a better way of knowing than by searching among musty libraries and sacristies. When your fingers were touching the keys I looked around my Marmouset to see who was listening beside you gentlemen. I soon discovered that the two heads on Monsieur Herbert’s chair