At a quarter past seven the room was full. According to custom visitors introduced themselves to one another, the crowd being altogether too large for ceremonious introductions. Late-comers came in quietly and unostentatiously, sitting down where they could and nodding casually to people they knew. The lighting was æsthetically dim, being afforded by a few heavily-shaded electric hand-lamps scattered promiscuously on tables and book-cases. Every available corner was occupied by extra chairs brought in from other parts of the house, and the central arena in front of the fireplace was a dumping-ground for music-cases, ’cellos, violins, etc. Catherine occupied a roomy arm-chair next to the fire, and was conscious that she was being looked at attentively. A red-shaded lamp on the end of the mantel-piece threw her hair into soft radiance, but its effect on her eyes was so dazzling as to throw all around her into an impenetrable dimness in which she could discern nothing but the vague suggestion of persons and things. George sat next to her, and from time to time passed remarks to which she replied vivaciously, conscious that every movement of her head brought into prominence the splendour of her hair. (Of late she had been paying considerable attention to her hair: a visit to a West End coiffurist had produced startling results.)
The evening crawled monotonously on. Log after log of crackling pine was placed on the open fire-grate; song followed song, violin, ’cello, mandoline each had its turn; a girl recited “The Dandy Fifth” in a way that was neither better nor worse than what Catherine felt she could have done herself, and Mr. Trant’s deep voice could be heard constantly above the periodic applause: “Charming little thing that.” “Is that one of Bach’s?” (pronounced “Back’s”). “Very pretty, isn’t it? Rather nice words, don’t you think?”
The order of performance was not definite. Catherine did not know when she might be asked. Of course, she had not a trace of nervousness. She had lost that completely now after constant appearances on public concert platforms. And this was only a drawing-room affair: there were no musical critics frowning in the front row, there was probably nobody in the room who would know if she played a false note. Besides, she would not play a false note, She smiled contemptuously as she heard the applause evoked by a timid rendering of a drawing-room ballad. She had an unmitigated contempt for these drawing-room ballads. Her theatrical experience had given her an intense hatred of cheap sentimental music of the kind sold in music shops at one-and-sixpence a copy. The particular song that had just been sung was of this class: its title was monosyllabic, and its music composed with an eye to vamping the accompaniment....
“That’s a nice little thing,” said Mr. Trant. “I don’t believe I’ve heard it before, either.... Reminds me of something, though ... I can’t think what....” Then in the blurred distance she could discern Mrs. Trant’s white frocked form travelling swiftly across the room and engaging in conversation with somebody unseen.
“Oh, please,” she heard, “please do! Everybody would be so glad. Helen, do persuade him. Really——”
The rest was drowned in the tuning of a violin.
Then Mrs. Trant, returning to her seat, whispering to her husband, getting up, standing with her back to the corner of the piano, and announcing:
“We are now to have a pianoforte solo”—impressive pause; Catherine guessed what was coming—“by Mr. Ray Verreker!”
Catherine had guessed wrong....