"Give it to me," he said, and he drank it off—"just to show" me.
I was conscious that Betty was singing—And that the door had opened. The Grey Hawk stood there with, as I thought at first, a thick-set boy dressed in a man's evening clothes. As she dismissed him I saw he was a hunchback. She shut the door behind the hunchback and the Colonel left the piano and came towards her. He was laughing. They stood and talked.
"Bend down. Bend low——" the voice said in my ear.
The Colonel's croaking laugh came nearer.
The man at my side called out: "Look here, Colonel. No poaching on my preserves. We are deep in a discussion about Art. You're not to interrupt."
"Oh, Art is it?" The old man had come behind our sofa, and was leaning down between us. I smelt a foul breath. With a sense of choking I lifted my head. The Colonel's watery eyes went from me to the strange ugly picture in the illustrated paper. I did not understand it. I do not think I would have been conscious of having looked at it, but for the expression on the Colonel's face.
Bettina finished her song. They all clapped. In the buzz, Bettina raised her voice. No, no. She couldn't dance, and sing, as well as accompany herself, she said.
"What time is it in?" the grey woman asked. She took Bettina's place at the piano.
Still Bettina hesitated, while The Tartar urged.
"Oh, I don't mind," Bettina said, "if you like such babyish songs."