“Holland, I think,—you’ll excuse my telling you,—that you have a very unfortunate manner at times.”
They went upstairs together and were descending when Geoffrey stopped, with his eyes on the grand piano which stood in the hall below them.
“Can you play?” he said.
McVay brightened at once. He had been looking a little glum since his last speech. “Yes,” he answered, “I can. Well, I’m not a professional, you understand, but for an amateur I am supposed to have as much technique and a good deal more sentiment than most.”
“I don’t care how you play,” said Holland. “There is a piano. Sit down and play, and don’t stop.”
“No, Holland, no,” said the other with unusual firmness; “that I will not do. No artist would. Ask any one. It is impossible to play in public without practice. I have not touched the instrument for over a year.”
“You can do all the practising you like here and now. You can play finger exercises for all I care. All I insist is that you should make a noise so that I’ll know you are there.”
“Well,” said McVay yielding, “you must remember to make allowances. Not the best musician could sit down after a year ... however, I dare say it will come back to me quicker than to most people. You must make allowances for my lack of practice.”
“There is only one thing I won’t make allowances for, and that is your moving from that music stool.”
He opened the piano, and McVay sat down waving his fingers to loosen the joints. He sat with his head on one side, as if waiting to discover which of the great composers was about to inspire him. Then he dropped lightly upon the notes, lifting his chin, as if surprised to find that an air of Schubert’s was growing under his fingers. Geoffrey was astonished to find that he really was, as he said, something of an artist. He waited until he was fairly started and then returned to the library.