§ 4
About twenty minutes to midnight the tenor singer (with baritone leanings) whispered to George Trant: “I say, ol’ chap. You’d better l’kafter tha’ l’l gaerl of yours.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Wha’ I say. She’s had too much.”
“But really, I don’t think——”
“Two glasses sherry, one hock, three champagne, two port ... I’ve took notice.”
“She’s a bit noisy, I’ll admit.... But she was quite lively enough as we came along. It’s her mood, I think, mostly.”
The party had left the table and split up into groups of twos and threes. Some lingered sentimentally on the balcony; the violinist, who was just a shade fuddled, lay sprawled across a couch with his eyes closed. Catherine was at the piano, making the most extraordinary din imaginable. Surrounding her were a group of young men in evening dress, singers and comedians and monologuists and what not. George Trant and the tenor singer stood at the French windows, smoking cigars and listening to the sounds that proceeded from the piano.
“We shall have the manager up,” said George, nervously.
“He’ll say we’re damaging the instrument.... I wish she’d quieten down a bit. The whole place must be being kept awake....”
Catherine’s voice, shrill and challenging, pierced the din.
“Impressions of Bockley High Street—nine p.m. Saturday night,” she yelled, and pandemonium raged over the keyboard. It was really quite a creditable piece of musical post-impressionism. But the noise was terrific. Glissandos in the treble, octave chromatics in the bass, terrible futurist chords and bewildering rhythms, all combined to make the performance somewhat painful. Her select audience applauded enthusiastically.
George Trant moved rather nervously towards the piano.
“I shouldn’t make quite so much noise,” he began, but nobody heard him. Catherine was crying out “Marbl’arch, Benk, L’pol Street,” in the approved jargon of the omnibus conductor, and was simultaneously making motor-bus noises on the piano. Everybody was laughing, because the mimicry of her voice was really excellent. George felt himself unable to raise his voice above the din. He paused a moment immediately behind her back and then touched her lightly on the shoulder. She did not heed. He touched her again somewhat more violently than before. She stopped abruptly both her instrumental and vocal effects, and swung round suddenly on the revolving music-stool so as to face him. Her eyes were preternaturally bright.
“Excuse me,” he began, and something in her eyes as she looked up at him made him doubly nervous, “but perhaps it would be better if you didn’t make quite such a noise.... You see, the other people ...” he added vaguely.
There was absolute silence now. The last echo of the piano had died away, and the select audience waited rather breathlessly for what might happen.
Catherine rose. There was that greenish-brown glint in her eyes that made fierce harmony with her hair. For a moment she looked at him unflinchingly. There was certainly defiance, perhaps contempt in her eyes.
“Who are you?” she said, with quiet insolence.
Somebody tittered.
George Trant looked and felt uncomfortable. For answer he turned slowly on his heel and walked away. It seemed on the whole the most dignified thing to do. Catherine flushed fiercely. Like a tigress she bounded to his side and made him stop.
“For God’s sake, don’t sulk!” she cried wildly. “Wake up and say something! Don’t stand there like a stone sphinx! Wake up!”
With a quick leap she sprang upwards and ran her two hands backwards and forwards through his hair. His hair was long and lank and well plastered. After she had finished with it it stood bolt upright on his head like a donkey fringe. Everyone roared with laughter.
During the progress of this operation the interior door had been opened and a man had entered. In the noise and excitement of the mêlée he was not noticed. He was tall, severe-looking and in evening dress. When the excitement subsided they found him standing a little awkwardly on the edge of the scuffle.
Catherine thought he was at least an underwaiter, come to complain of the noise they were making.
He bowed very slightly, and immediately everybody felt sure he was a waiter. Only a professional could have bowed so chillingly.
Catherine, with flushed face and dishevelled hair, leaned against a chair, panting from her exertion.
“I do not wish to interrupt,” began the stranger, and there might have been sarcasm in his voice, “but I have been commissioned to deliver a message to Miss Weston. Which is Miss Weston?”
“I am Miss Weston,” gasped Catherine. Then, to everyone’s amazement, she proceeded furiously: “I know it—I know it. You needn’t tell me! I saw it in the papers ... I suppose they’ll say it’s all my fault.... Do they want me? ... if so, I’ll come. I’ll come with you now if you like....”
The stranger raised his eyebrows slightly.
“I have no desire for you to come anywhere with me.... I don’t know what you are talking about, either. My message is contained in this note, and there is no immediate necessity to reply to it.”
Somebody said, rather in the spirit of a heckler at a political meeting: “Who sent it?” The stranger turned and said: “I should think Miss Weston and not I should be asked that.” The questioner subsided ignominiously.
Catherine took the envelope that the stranger offered her. She put it unread into her pocket. The stranger bowed and walked out. Silence.... Then a chatter of conversation.
“Admirer of yours,” said the violinist, thickly, from his couch. Everybody thought he had been asleep.
“Didn’t exactly get you at a good moment,” remarked the tenor singer, flicking away his cigar-ash.
“Looked like an undertaker,” said the soprano.
“Or the ‘salary-doubled-in-a-fortnight’ man in the efficiency advertisements,” put in the monologuist.
Catherine started to arrange her hair.
“I’m going,” she said, and walked towards the balcony (there was no exit that way). Near the French windows she staggered and fell, fortunately upon the cushions of a couch. They all crowded round her. She did not attempt to rise.
“She’s drunk,” muttered the violinist.
“Possibly ...” said George Trant, bending down to her. “Fetch some water. I think she’s fainted....”