“We’ll go by bus to High Wood and walk the rest. It’s sooner....”
Again she acquiesced, this time by a nod that seemed to indicate an eagerness too great to be put into words.
At the corner of the Bockley High Street they took a bus. They occupied the front seat on the top. The night was moonless, but stars were shining over the whole sky. In front and behind stretched the high road with arc lights gleaming like a chain of pearls. She thought of that other evening when she had ridden with Helen along this very road on the top of a crowded tram-car. She remembered how in the passing glare of the arc-lamps she had read the note which George Trant had enclosed for her. She remembered it all as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, though in point of time it seemed to belong to another age. She remembered the purr of the quickly-moving car, the hiss of the trolley-wheel along the overhead wires, the buzz of talk all round her, and the sharp, sickly sensation of reading a few words in spasms and fitting them into their context when the pale light merged into the darkness.
But even while she thought of these things she became greatly joyous. She took off her hat and stuffed it into her pocket (it was of the kind that yields to such treatment). Her hair blew in soft spray about her head and shoulders, and her eyes were wet with the tears that the cool wind brought. She remembered that once he had said “My God! ... your hair! ...” He might not say it again, but perhaps he would think it.
“I liked your playing,” he said.
“You did?”
“Rather.... I’m not much of a judge, but I can always tell a real musician from a false one. The real musician throws his whole soul into his music....”
“Did I?”
“Yes. I know you did. You played almost unconsciously. I believe you forgot all about your audience. You were just playing for the sheer love of playing....”
“Are you sure?”