After tea, I retreated into a corner, beneath one of those novel phonographs which Young Harry had introduced to the house.  It stood on a pedestal above me, its horn sticking out above my head.  Young Harry demonstrated it, playing a cylindrical record of Caruso singing an aria from Il Trovatore.  It sounded like a tiny, far-off voice from fairyland.  Harry then showed me Caruso’s autograph in his album, embellished by a self-caricature drawn by that warm-hearted master.