CATHERINE WESTON.
When Catherine had set out some hours before she had had no thoughts of a pianoforte recital. To be sure, the idea was always revolving more or less nebulously in her line of vision, but till this moment it had lacked definition. A pianoforte recital involved a good deal of risk. It meant hours and hours of preparatory practice, much worry and anxiety, and the possible loss of a good deal of money. It meant running the gauntlet of all the blasé and supercilious musical critics. It meant learning some good solid “background” piece of work to placate the British public—something heavy and hackneyed and academic—a Brahms sonata or some Beethoven pomposity. And to consult Verreker on the matter was merely to invite showers of disappointment and disillusionment. He would assuredly recommend her not to attempt a recital. He would tell her candidly that her abilities were not equal to it. And if she insisted, he would tell her to go somewhere else for advice: he would not risk his reputation by backing her. He would be violently rude and outspoken. He would repeat his dictum that she could never advance beyond the front rank of the second-raters....
She knew all these things. She had thought of them, weighed them up, and counted them nothing. She was impulsive, but she knew whither her impulse led and what it involved. She knew that Verreker would insult her.... And yet she wrote to him.
As she ran joyously down Gifford Road to post the letter she thought: “What will he think of my note? What will he think of the wording of it? How will the concluding sentence affect him?—‘Will you do this for me?’—So charming, so delightfully personal, so intimate, with a dash of roguish coquetry! But will he see all that?—or will he think it merely impudent?”
Anyway, she decided, I should get an answer by Wednesday morning....
§ 2
She worked it out mathematically. He would receive the note by the first post on Tuesday morning. If he wrote immediately it was just possible that a reply might reach her by the seven o’clock post on Tuesday evening. However, such promptness was unlikely and not to be expected; it was much more probable that he would write later on in the day, so that she should receive his answer by breakfast time on Wednesday. She pinned her hopes to breakfast time on Wednesday. Yet she could not help a feeling of tense anticipation when the postman knocked at the door on Tuesday evening. He has been prompt, she told herself triumphantly, and she sat down at the piano and started to turn over the pages of a Bach Concerto. She would not betray her excitement by rushing down into the kitchen to fetch the letter. She would let Mrs. Carbass bring it up to her. After all, it was absurd to be so concerned about a letter. And a few minutes made no difference in any case.
But Mrs. Carbass did not come. And the awful strangling thought came to Catherine: “Perhaps there wasn’t a letter for me!” At least, it was awful and strangling at first, until she told herself somewhat irritably: “Well, you didn’t expect one, did you? Give the man time!” And of course there was Bank Holiday traffic: possibly that accounted for some delay. Curious that she should have neglected that superbly facile explanation—of course, it must be Bank Holiday traffic....
Or perhaps Mrs. Carbass had forgotten to bring it up. Catherine discovered a sudden desire to borrow Mrs. Carbass’s scissors. She went down the short flight of steps into the dark kitchen.
“Can I have your scissors a moment, Mrs. Carbass?”