"Aloud," he added firmly.
"Sandy, you're a beast!"
"Not a bit. I believe I could compose a symphonic poem under the influence of salmon and shrimp sandwiches—if I had enough of them."
"You've had enough," retorted Nan promptly. "So come along and begin."
She swept him away to the big music-room, where a polished floor and an absence of draperies offered no hindrance to the tones of the beautiful Blüthner piano. Some of the party drifted in from the terrace outside as Sandy's long, boyish fingers began to move capably over the keys, extemporising delightfully.
"If he were only a little older," whispered Kitty to Lord St. John.
"Inveterate match-maker!" he whispered back.
Sandy pulled Nan down on to the music seat beside him.
"The Shrimp Symphony in A flat minor, arranged for four hands," he announced. "Come on, Nan. Time, seven-four—"
"Sandy, don't be ridiculous!"