When he had finished, Grahl spoke, without looking up, as to himself:
“That was one of the things I played at my first concert. I did not play it as well as you—no, not half so well. I doubt if Beethoven himself ever played it better!”
For a while he sat with bowed head. Then raising himself suddenly, he ran his fingers over the keyboard, and the gay tones of the “Valse d’Espagne” danced like demons out upon the silence that had followed Beethoven’s Andante.
Ormarr, who had been standing deep in thought, looked round with a start; Grahl rose from the music-stool with a harsh laugh.
“A fancy of mine,” he said shortly, “to let Waldteufel loose on the heels of Beethoven.”
He went across to the table, lit a cigar, and slipped into an easy-chair.
Ormarr followed his movements intently. There was a strange expression in his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and face seemed deeper than usual.
Grahl paid no heed to him; he was smoking, and evidently occupied with his own reflections. When Ormarr moved, he looked up, and pointed to a chair.
“Sit down, Ormarr; not time to go home yet. Take a cigar.”
“Thanks.”