The English visitors could hear the occasional twanging of a zither, the strumming of a piano, snatches of laughter and shouting and singing, a faint vibration of voices. The whole building being of wood, it seemed to carry every sound, like a drum, but instead of increasing each particular noise, it decreased it, so that the sound of the zither seemed tiny, as if a diminutive zither were playing somewhere, and it seemed the piano must be a small one, like a little spinet.
The host came when the coffee was finished. He was a Tyrolese, broad, rather flat-cheeked, with a pale, pock-marked skin and flourishing moustaches.
“Would you like to go to the Reunionsaal to be introduced to the other ladies and gentlemen?” he asked, bending forward and smiling, showing his large, strong teeth. His blue eyes went quickly from one to the other—he was not quite sure of his ground with these English people. He was unhappy too because he spoke no English and he was not sure whether to try his French.
“Shall we go to the Reunionsaal, and be introduced to the other people?” repeated Gerald, laughing.
There was a moment’s hesitation.
“I suppose we’d better—better break the ice,” said Birkin.
The women rose, rather flushed. And the Wirt’s black, beetle-like, broad-shouldered figure went on ignominiously in front, towards the noise. He opened the door and ushered the four strangers into the play-room.
Instantly a silence fell, a slight embarrassment came over the company. The newcomers had a sense of many blond faces looking their way. Then, the host was bowing to a short, energetic-looking man with large moustaches, and saying in a low voice:
“Herr Professor, darf ich vorstellen—”
The Herr Professor was prompt and energetic. He bowed low to the English people, smiling, and began to be a comrade at once.