it was upon this evening that audrey began alarmingly to develop the quality of being incomprehensible—even to herself. like most young women and men, she had been convinced from an early age that she was mysteriously unlike all other created beings, and—again like most young men and women—she could find, in the secrecy of her own heart, plenty of proof of a unique strangeness. but now her unreason became formidable. there she sat with her striking forehead and her quite unimportant nose, in the large austere drawing-room of the spatts, which was so pervaded by artistic chintz that the slightest movement in it produced a crackle—and wondered why she was so much queerer than other girls could possibly be.

neither the crackling of chintz nor the aspect of the faces in the drawing-room was conducive to clear psychological analysis. mr. ziegler, with a glass of pilsener by his side on a small table and a cigar in his richly jewelled hand, reposed with crossed legs in an easy chair. he had utterly recovered from the momentary irritation caused by audrey’s attack on strauss, and his perfect beaming satisfaction with himself made a spectacle which would have distracted an indian saint from the contemplation of eternity and nothingness. mr. and mrs. spatt, seated as far as was convenient from one another on a long sofa, their emaciated bodies very upright and alert, gazed with intense expectation at musa. musa stood in the middle of the room, tuning his violin with little twangs and listening to the twangs as to a secret message.

miss nickall, being an invalid, had excusably gone to bed, and jane foley, sharer of her bedroom, had followed. the happy relief on jane’s face as she said good night to her hosts had testified to the severity of the ordeal of hospitality through which she had so heroically passed. she might have been going out of prison instead of going out of the most intellectual drawing-room in frinton.

audrey, too, would have liked to retire, for automobiles and sensations had exhausted her; but just at this point her unreason had begun to operate. she would not leave musa alone, because miss nickall was leaving him alone. yet she did not feel at all benevolent towards musa. she was angry with him for having quitted paris. she was angry with him for having said to her, in such a peculiar tone: “it’s you i came to london to see.” she was angry with him for not having found an opportunity, during the picnic meal provided for the two new-comers after the regular dinner, to explain why he had come to london to see her. she was angry with him for that dark hostility which he had at once displayed towards mr. ziegler, though she herself hated the innocent mr. ziegler with the ferocity of a woman of the revolution. and further, she was glad, ridiculously glad, that musa had come to london to see her. lastly she was aware of a most irrational objection to the manner in which miss nickall and musa said good night to one another, and the obvious fact that musa in less than an hour had reached terms of familiarity with jane foley.

she thought:

“i haven’t the faintest idea why he has given up his practising in paris to come to see me. but if it is what i feel sure it is, there will be trouble.... why do i stay in this ghastly drawing-room? i am dying to go to sleep, and i simply detest everybody in the room. i detest musa more than all, because as usual he has been acting like a child.... why can’t you smile at him, audrey moze? why frown and pretend you’re cross when you know you aren’t, audrey moze? ... i am cross, and he shall suffer. was this a time to leave his practising—and the concerts soon coming on? i positively 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 few bars, audrey gave a start, fortunately not a physical start, and she blushed also. musa sternly winked at her. frenchmen do not make a practice of winking, but he had learnt the accomplishment for fun from miss thompkins in paris. the wink caused audrey surreptitiously to observe mr. and mrs. spatt. it was no relief to her to perceive that these two were listening to debussy’s toccata for solo violin with the trained and appreciative attention of people who had heard it often before in the various capitals of europe, who knew it by heart, and who knew at just what passages to raise the head, to give a nod of recognition or a gesture of ecstasy. the bare room was filled with the sound of musa’s fiddle and with the high musical culture of mr. and mrs. spatt. when the piece was over they clapped discreetly, and looked with soft intensity at audrey, as if murmuring: “you, too, are a cultured cosmopolitan. you share our emotion.” and across the face of mrs. spatt spread a glow triumphant, for musa now positively had played for the first time in england in her drawing-room, and she foresaw hundreds of occasions on which she could refer to the matter with a fitting air of casualness. the glow triumphant, however, paled somewhat as she felt upon herself the eye of mr. ziegler.

“where is siegfried, alroy?” she demanded, after having thanked musa. “i wouldn’t have had him miss that debussy for anything, but i hadn’t noticed that he was gone. he adores debussy.”

“i think it is like bad bach,” mr. ziegler put in suddenly. then he raised his glass and imbibed a good portion of the beer specially obtained and provided for him by his hostess and admirer, mrs. spatt.

“do you really?” murmured mrs. spatt, with deprecation.

“there’s something in the comparison,” mr. spatt admitted thoughtfully.

“why not like good bach?” musa asked, glaring in a very strange manner at mr. ziegler.

“bosh!” ejaculated mr. ziegler with a most notable imperturbability. “only bach himself could com-pose good bach.”

musa’s breathing could be heard across the drawing-room.

“eh bien!“ said musa. “now i will play for you debussy’s toccata. i was not playing it before. i was playing the chaconne of bach, the most famous composition for the violin in the world.”

he did not embroider the statement. he left it in its nakedness. nor did he permit anybody else to embroider it. before a word of any kind could be uttered he had begun to play again. probably in all the annals of artistic snobbery, no cultured cosmopolitan had ever been made to suffer a more exquisite moral torture of humiliation than musa had contrived to inflict upon mr. and mrs. spatt in return for their hospitality. their sneaped squirmings upon the sofa were terrible to witness. but mr. ziegler’s sensibility was apparently quite unaffected. he continued to smile, to drink, and to smoke. he seemed to be saying to himself: “what does it matter to me that this miserable frenchman has caught me in a mistake? i could eat him, and one day i shall eat him.”

after a little while musa snatched out of his right-hand lower waistcoat pocket the tiny wooden “mute” which all violinists carry without fail upon all occasions in all their waistcoats; and, sticking it with marvellous rapidity upon the bridge of the violin, he entered upon a pianissimo, but still lively, episode of the toccata. and simultaneously another melody faint and clear could be heard in the room. it was mr. ziegler humming “the watch on the rhine” against the toccata of debussy. thus did it occur to mr. ziegler to take revenge on musa for having attempted to humiliate him. not unsurprisingly, musa detected at once the competitive air. he continued to play, gazing hard at his violin and apparently entranced, but edging little by little towards mr. ziegler. audrey desired either to give a cry or to run out of the room. she did neither, being held to inaction by the spell of mr. ziegler’s perfect unconcern as, with the beer glass lifted towards his mouth, he proceeded steadily to work through “the watch on the rhine,” while musa lilted out the delicate, gay phrases of debussy. the enchantment upon the whole room was sinister and painful. musa got closer to mr. ziegler, who did not blench nor cease from his humming. then suddenly musa, lowering his fiddle and interrupting the scene, snatched the mute from the bridge of the violin.

“i have put it on the wrong instrument,” he said thickly, with a very french intonation, and simultaneously he shoved the mute with violence into the mouth of mr. ziegler. in doing so, he jerked up mr. ziegler’s elbow, and the remains of the beer flew up and baptised mr. ziegler’s face and vesture. then he jammed the violin into its case, and ran out of the room.

“barbare! imbécile! sauvage!“ he muttered ferociously on the threshold.

the enchantment was broken. everybody rose, and not the least precipitately the streaming mr. ziegler, who, ejecting the mute with much spluttering, and pitching away his empty glass, sprang towards the door, with justifiable homicide in every movement.

“mr. ziegler!” audrey appealed to him, snatching at his dress-coat and sticking to it.

he turned, furious, his face still dripping the finest pilsener beer.

“if your dress-coat is not wiped instantly, it will be ruined,” said audrey.

“ach! meiner frack!“ exclaimed mr. ziegler, forgetting his deep knowledge of english. his economic instincts had been swiftly aroused, and they dominated all the other instincts. “meiner frack! vill you vipe it?” his glance was imploring.

“oh! mrs. spatt will attend to it,” said audrey with solemnity, and walked out of the room into the hall. there was not a sign of musa; the disappearance of the violinist was disquieting; and yet it made her glad—so much so that she laughed aloud. a few moments later mr. ziegler stalked forth from the house which he was never to enter again, and his silent scorn and the grandeur of his displeasure were terrific. he entirely ignored audrey, who had nevertheless been the means of saving his frack for him.