‘You have guessed right,’ he said; and then he asked me in a casual tone: ‘Do you ever play pianoforte duets?’
‘Often,’ I replied unsuspectingly, ‘with my aunt. We play the symphonies of Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert, Haydn, and overtures, and so on.’
‘Awfully good fun, isn’t it?’ he smiled.
‘Splendid!’ I said.
‘I’ve got Tristan here arranged for pianoforte duet,’ he said. ‘Tony, my secretary, enjoys playing it. You shall play part of the second act with me.’
‘Me! With you!’
‘Certainly.’
‘Impossible! I should never dare! How do you know I can play at all?’
‘You have just proved it to me,’ said he. ‘Come; you will not refuse me this!’
I wanted to leave the vicinity of the piano. I felt that, once out of the immediate circle of his tremendous physical influence, I might manage to escape the ordeal which he had suggested. But I could not go away. The silken nets of his personality had been cast, and I was enmeshed. And if I was happy, it was with a dreadful happiness.