Then the pendulum swung back again, and he was a boy himself, and boyishly delighted with success.
“Oh, I enjoyed it all so,” he said. “After that first terrible minute, I just revelled in it. Can’t I give another concert this evening?”
Here Lady Sunningdale broke in,—
“You not only can, but you must, after dinner,” she said. “Martin, you played really nicely to-day. I am going to begin to practise to-morrow morning. Scales. No, not to-morrow morning, because I shall be otherwise engaged on the English Channel. Why can’t they run a large steam-roller over the sea between Dover and Calais? Nobody can tell me. However, I’m told it is rather healthy than otherwise. My dear, red velvet sofas, tin basins, Stella, and I. Also Suez Canal. Sahara is not yet in a fit state. It is too terrible. Eight o’clock to-night, Martin. And I shall never forgive you for this afternoon. You gave me the worst five minutes I ever had.”
“I tried to make up for it,” said he.
Lady Sunningdale turned quickly back in the doorway.
“I adored you,” she said. “And next time I shall wear large eights. Perhaps they will not burst quite so soon.”
Martin turned a thirsty eye on Karl when she had gone.
“And can I have my whiskey-and-soda now?” he asked. “I want it frightfully.”
Then quite suddenly his face changed, as if a lamp had been put out. He looked tired, worn out.