It was enough to make anyone look grave, but her good faith was so evident that Heyst recovered himself at once.
“It's my unfortunate manner—” he said with his delicate, polished playfulness. “Is is very objectionable to you?”
She was very serious.
“No. I only noticed it. I haven't come across so many pleasant people as all that, in my life.”
“It's certain that this woman who plays the piano is infinitely more disagreeable than any cannibal I have ever had to do with.”
“I believe you!” She shuddered. “How did you come to have anything to do with cannibals?”
“It would be too long a tale,” said Heyst with a faint smile. Heyst's smiles were rather melancholy, and accorded badly with his great moustaches, under which his mere playfulness lurked as comfortable as a shy bird in its native thicket. “Much too long. How did you get amongst this lot here?”
“Bad luck,” she answered briefly.
“No doubt, no doubt,” Heyst assented with slight nods. Then, still indignant at the pinch which he had divined rather than actually seen inflicted: “I say, couldn't you defend yourself somehow?”
She had risen already. The ladies of the orchestra were slowly regaining their places. Some were already seated, idle stony-eyed, before the music-stands. Heyst was standing up, too.