Beatrice asked these questions in a low voice and gave me no chance to answer. Then taking a rhythm from the music before her, she said—
“At the back of the house is a garden—a door in the wall—on the lane. Understand?”
I turned over the pages without any effect on her playing.
“When?” I asked.
She dealt in chords. “I wish I could play this!” she said. “Midnight.”
She gave her attention to the music for a time.
“You may have to wait.”
“I’ll wait.”
She brought her playing to an end by—as school boys say—“stashing it up.”
“I can’t play to-night,” she said, standing up and meeting my eyes. “I wanted to give you a parting voluntary.”