“Have you?” McNally smiled easily. “I wish you had said that, Miss Porter.”
“Oh, Mr. McNally, you know I was hoping for you.”
Harvey's eyes betrayed him, for she added in a bantering tone,—
“We must say such things to Mr. McNally, Mr. West; if we don't, he gets simply unbearable.”
McNally looked at her with an amused expression. Evidently they understood each other. As the banter continued, Harvey began to feel uncomfortable. He tried to listen to the orchestra, which was playing a lively march.
“Good, isn't it?” said Miss Porter to Harvey.
“Splendid,” he replied.
“Do you think so?” observed Mr. McNally. “Seems to me Bunge's a little off to-night. Too much drum. Queer motions, hasn't he?”
Herr Bunge's motions were queer. He was very tall and spare, with an angular, smooth-shaven face, and with a luxuriant growth of hair that waved and flopped in the gentle breeze. His long arms were principally elbow, and they swayed and crooked and jerked as though he were pulling the music down out of the air. At times when he turned to the belated second violins, his gaunt profile would appear in silhouette against a glare of electric light.
“Do you know,” said McNally, fingering his programme, “Bunge ought to stick to this kind of stuff. Last week I heard him play some of the Queen Mab music, and it was wilful slaughter. Poor old Berlioz would have sobbed aloud if he had heard it.”