“I mean the Maze,” he explained laboriously. “The thing like the one at Hampton Court, down by the river, close to the boat-house. None of the visitors is likely to find a way to either of the centres; and none of us is likely to disturb you. We don’t usually go there; at least, I don’t myself.”
Neville’s face had shown enlightenment at the first sentence.
“Oh, our Maze, you mean? We were talking about the piano when you burst in, Ernest, and I didn’t quite take the connection. That’s not a bad notion. As you say, nobody’s likely to bother me if I plant myself in either of the centres. Besides, I want all the fresh air I can get just now; it’ll be better out there than anywhere inside the house. Right. I’ll go to Helen’s Bower.”
He moved towards the door as he spoke; but before he reached it a piano sounded not far off, and the opening bars of Sinding’s Frühlingsrauschen came to their ears. Neville turned back with his hand on the door-handle.
“By the way, Roger, what about that young nephew of ours? He seems all right—a bit moody, perhaps, but nothing out of the common. What does the doctor say?”
Roger’s face clouded.
“Arthur? He’s a young pest. About thrice a week he takes a fancy to the piano, and then he spends the whole day playing one piece over and over again, like an automatic machine—except for the mistakes. Damnable. You don’t know how I hate the sound of the Spring Song and Frühlingsrauschen. You must have heard him at it this morning; and now he’s starting all over again.”
The barrister nodded.
“Yes, but what about his general tone?” he asked. “Has he got over the encephalitis completely? Did the Harley Street man find anything permanently wrong?”
Roger’s face betrayed little satisfaction.