itively
prefer this Ziegler man to him. Yes, I do." So ran her reflections, and
they annoyed her.

"What would you wish me to play?" asked Musa, when he had definitely
finished twanging. Audrey noticed that his English accent was getting a
little less French. She had to admit that, though his appearance was
extravagantly un-British, it was distinguished. The immensity of his black
silk cravat made the black cravat of Mr. Spatt seem like a bootlace round
his thin neck.

"Whatever you like, Mr. Musa," replied Aurora Spatt. "_Please!_"

And as a fact the excellent woman, majestic now in spite of her red nose
and her excessive thinness, did not care what Musa played. He had merely to
play. She had decided for herself, from the conversation, that he was a
very celebrated performer, and she had ascertained, by direct questioning,
that he had never performed in England. She was determined to be able to
say to all comers till death took her that "Musa--the great Musa, you
know--first played in England in my own humble drawing-room." The thing
itself was actually about to occur; nothing could stop it from occurring;
and the thought of the immediate realisation of her desire and ambition
gave Mrs. Spatt greater and more real pleasure than she had had for years;
it even fortified her against the possible resentment of her cherished Mr.
Ziegler.

"French music--would you wish?" Musa suggested.

"Is there any French music? That is to say, of artistic importance?" asked
Mr. Ziegler calmly. "I have never heard of it."

He was not consciously being rude. Nor was he trying to be funny. His
question implied an honest belief. His assertion was sincere. He glanced,
blinking slightly, round the room, with a self-confidence that was either
terrible or pathetic, according to the degree of your own self-confidence.

Audrey said to herself.

"I'm glad this isn't my drawing-room." And she was almost frightened by the
thought that that skull opposite to her was absolutely impenetrable, and
that it would go down to the grave unpierced with all its collection of
ideas intact and braggart.

As for Mr. and Mrs. Spatt they were both in the state of not knowing where
to look. Immediately their gaze met another gaze it leapt away as from
something dangerous or obscene.

"I will play Debussy's Toccata for violin solo," Musa announced tersely. He
had blushed; his great eyes were sparkling. And he began to play.

And as soon as he had played a