And I couldn't help wishing there were some such
rule in Society, at the conclusion of a song--that the singer herself
should say the right thing, and not leave it to the audience. Suppose
a young lady has just been warbling ('with a grating and uncertain sound')
Shelley's exquisite lyric 'I arise from dreams of thee': how much nicer
it would be, instead of your having to say "Oh, thank you, thank you!"
for the young lady herself to remark, as she draws on her gloves,
while the impassioned words 'Oh, press it to thine own, or it will break
at last!' are still ringing in your ears, "--but she wouldn't do it,
you know. So it did break at last."
"And I knew it would!" she added quietly, as I started at the sudden
crash of broken glass. "You've been holding it sideways for the last
minute, and letting all the champagne run out! Were you asleep,
I wonder? I'm so sorry my singing has such a narcotic effect!"
CHAPTER 18.
QUEER STREET, NUMBER FORTY.
Lady Muriel was the speaker. And, for the moment, that was the only
fact I could clearly realise. But how she came to be there and how I
came to be there--and how the glass of champagne came to be there--all
these were questions which I felt it better to think out in silence,
and not commit myself to any statement till I understood things a
little more clearly.
'First accumulate a mass of Facts: and then construct a Theory.'
That, I believe, is the true Scientific Method.
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