“Try this,” Diana said to Rose again and again. “It’s so very easy, really.”
And Rose, giggling nervously, repeated loudly: “No, I couldn’t—really, I couldn’t,” a great many times.
At last she agreed to attempt the “Variations” and sat down at the piano, endeavouring to give herself confidence by the preliminary sketchy “run” that had been the orthodox prelude to all piano solos at school.
Her fingers, stiff from absence of practice, bungled it badly, but she regained courage at the first bars of the very simple music.
“One, two and three, four,” murmured Rose under her breath, violently stressing the first beat in every bar, regardless of phrasing, and vaguely hopeful that the application of the loud pedal would drown any false notes.
If Diana’s playing was mediocre, that of Rose was definitely vulgar, although she possessed a real ability to read at sight, and considerable muscular power and agility.
“Oh, thanks awfully!” cried Toby, when it was over. “Have you got that ripping waltz out of ‘The Strawberry Girl’?”
“Well played, well played,” muttered Sir Thomas, not looking up from his Times.
Charlesbury said nothing at all, and Ford, going over to the piano, silently assisted Rose to close it, with an air which plainly implied that there remained nothing else to be done.
“I suppose I made a fool of myself,” she observed with an angry laugh.