“So,” he went on meditatively, “you were the young lady who knew the Bach double-piano concerto from memory! Curious! ... I thought it was remarkable, and the next time I was in town I intended coming up to Ryder’s to see who you were.... Perhaps it is well I didn’t.... We might have startled each other.”
“We might,” she said quietly.
Long pause....
“I don’t remember your ever playing the concerto when I knew you,” he resumed, still in the rôle of a somewhat curious spectator. “I never taught it you, did I?”
“No,” she answered. “I learnt it myself.” And there was just a momentary gleam of fire within at that remark. As much as to say: “Don’t think I am not capable of doing some things myself.”
“Do you know all of it?” he asked.
“I did—but I don’t know if I remember it all now.” He tapped his pipe on the mantelpiece.
“I wish you’d play it for me,” he said, slowly and still meditatively, “I should like very much to hear it ... and besides ... it would ... give me time to think....”
“To think what?” she put in sharply.
He sat down, filled his pipe afresh and lit it, saying as he did so: “Well—to think—one of the things, at any rate—why you have come.”