After the half hour was up, Paine sighed and let him go. Obviously the concert pianist gag was a coverup for something else—some fancied wrong—perhaps plain restlessness.
Alone, Paine went back over the conversation, intrigued by John Harper's strange determination.
"This talk about being a concert pianist is a gag of course, isn't it, John?"
"No, Mr. Paine."
"But man—you're too old to start a thing like that. You never in your life studied music did you?"
"No, sir."
"Then let me tell you—first, in a thing like that, you've got to have talent. Have you got talent?"
"I don't know."
It had seemed ridiculous, seriously pinpointing things that should have been obvious. "Well let's say you have—just for argument's sake. All right—talent has to be caught early and nourished—like a seed—get what I mean? A man can't start at your age and get any place in a game the experts started in at eight or nine—as children."
"You may be right, Mr. Paine, but maybe that doesn't apply to me. Maybe it does, of course, but I've got to find out."