The musician's enthusiasm was kindled; he grew eloquent. "It is by a new German composer: a man called Beethoven. My old violin-master, Kreutzer, sent it me.—Ah! These new Germans! They are so complicated; so difficult. I am old-fashioned, you know. I had the honour of playing under Mr. Haydn at the Salomon concerts. Yes! and in the very first performance of his immortal Oratorio, 'The Creation,' at Worcester. So perhaps I am prejudiced. Yet this new music is very wonderful; very heart-searching." He stopped abruptly, realising he was talking to deaf ears. Sir Peter came to his rescue.
"I don't know anything about your new-fangled fiddle-faddles; but, by Jehoshaphat, Pringle, play me a hornpipe, and I 'll dance till your arms drop off!"
He hummed the tune, and with amazing agility sketched a few steps, while Mr. Brooke-Hoskyn put up his quizzing glass and eyed him with a superior smile. "Oh!" laughed Marjolaine, clapping her hands, "you must teach me!"
"That I will, Missie! and the sooner the better."
Mrs. Poskett was furious. "No fool like an old fool," she whispered in Ruth's ear.
Barbara, who had been up to Mrs. Poskett's gate to stroke Sempronius, came running down with a little cry of horror. She pointed to the frouzy figure of the Eyesore. "Look! The Eyesore 's going to smoke!"
And, sure enough, after removing an indescribable handkerchief, a greasy newspaper, obviously containing his lunch, half an apple, a large piece of cheese, a huge pocket-knife, and a lump of coal he had picked up in the road, the Eyesore had dragged out a horrible little clay pipe and a dreadful little paper packet of tobacco. The Walk stood petrified. When the Eyesore smoked, everybody had to go indoors and shut their windows.
"His poisonous tobacco!" cried Ruth. "Can you not speak to him, Admiral?"
"I can, Madam, but he'll answer back."
"And then," said Mrs. Poskett somewhat tartly, "of course you are helpless."