She played “Poland is Lost.” She played it well, because she was feeling defiant. She played with the same complete disrespect for her audience as had won her the first prize at the musical eisteddfod. Where she wanted to bang, she banged. She did not care that she was in a low-roofed dining-room and not a concert hall. She did not care if she pleased or displeased them. They were contemptuous of her: she would be contemptuous of them. The result was that she was not in the least nervous. Yet when she had struck the last note she could not help remarking to herself: “I did play that well. They must have been rather impressed.”
An awkward pause ensued. Then Verreker said very weakly: “Thank you.” His “thank you” was almost ruder than if he had said nothing at all.
“Well?” said Razounov.
Catherine thought he was speaking to her. She was meditating something in reply when Verreker spoke, showing that the word had been addressed to him. A feeling of exquisite relief that she had not spoken came over her.
“She oughtn’t to play Chopin,” remarked Verreker.
“No,” agreed Razounov.
Catherine’s face reddened. It was the subtle innuendo of their remarks that hurt her. Also, by all the standards she had learnt at the Bockley High School for Girls there was something impolite in their criticizing her coolly in the third person as if she were not present. She resented it. She was not a stickler for etiquette, but she would not be insulted. “I don’t care who they are,” she thought rebelliously, “they’ve no right to treat me like that. I’m as good as they are, every bit!”
A long pause seemed to intensify the sinister significance of their previous remarks.
“Look here,” cried Catherine, breaking in raucously upon the silence, “why don’t you tell me straight out I can’t play?”
After she had said it she regretted her hastiness. She perceived it was a foolish thing to say. She blushed fiercely.