Mrs. Maclaughlin’s untrammelled speech was at all times an affront to Kingsnorth. The intimation that he was a poor substitute for Maclaughlin as a protector stung him. When he spoke, his voice had a quality of suave ugliness that grated like a rasped saw on Charlotte’s nerves.
“You’re panicky,” he said. “Why don’t you pattern on Mrs. Collingwood and me? We’re ready for anything; are we not, dear lady?”
A heavy gust of wind and another downpour silenced them all for a few seconds.
“This,” said Kingsnorth to Charlotte, as the gust subsided, “is just preliminary to the theme; it’s the scale playing in the key with which the virtuoso dazzles his audience before he rolls up his cuffs, runs both hands through his hair, and gets into the first movement. Ah, here’s the theme.”
“What’s a virtuoso?” snapped Mrs. Maclaughlin.
“A virtuoso is a gentleman who can play the piano or some other instrument exceedingly well,” Kingsnorth replied, with the same dangerous suavity.
“I hate the nasty long-haired things.” It was quite evident that Mrs. Mac’s nerves had gone to splinters. Charlotte threw herself into the breach.
“Well, don’t hate this storm,” she said, “even if Mr. Kingsnorth did compare it to a sonata. It’s beautiful. It’s grand.” Another howl and downpour, and this time the framework of the house shivered under its impact.
“Merely the andante,” said Kingsnorth, shrugging his shoulders.
“You make my blood run cold,” cried Mrs. Maclaughlin.