He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Ramage did not know. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. ‘For kissing you, or for not meaning to do so?’ ‘Imbecile,’ exclaimed Melusine impatiently. ‘But for how long?’ Lady Bicknacre asked apprehensively. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible. It was during Martin’s Violin Concerto that she was extraordinary. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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