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.”