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He repeated that remark, too good to be lost, about the
spinet; it led to Scarlatti, Mozart, Handel. He said Handel was the
saviour of English music. She said Handel was its blight and damnation.
Each being furnished with copious arguments, the discussion degenerated
into technicalities.
Denis, meanwhile, was handing round tea-cakes and things, with the
double object of making himself useful and of being as near as possible
to Angelina, the hand-maiden of the Duchess, a bewitchingly pretty
brunette, who was doing the same. Perhaps the existence of Angelin
accounted for his respectful attentions and frequent visits to the
Duchess. He felt he was really in love for the first time in his life.
He worshipped from afar. He would have liked to worship from a little
nearer, but did not know how to set about it; he was afraid of
troubling what he called her innocence. Hitherto he had scored no great
success. Angelina, aged fifteen, with the figure of a fairy, a glowing
complexion, and a rich southern voice, was perfectly aware of his
idealistic sentiments.


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