He did not seem particularly conversational.
After a silence he said:
“Oh, what was that little piece you played as an encore this afternoon?”
“One of Beethoven’s Minuets.”
“Oh?—I don’t remember ever having heard it. Play it now, will you?”
His courtliness had vanished, for he let her carry a chair to the piano unassisted.
Towards the conclusion of the piece he rose and stood at her elbow, leaning on the top of the piano. She could see him frowning. When she had finished, she was expecting some ruthless technical criticism of her playing.
But he stood for a long while in silence. Then he said gruffly:
“Damned sentimental. I thought as much.”
“What do you mean?” she asked quietly.