“I am proud of the success which Pamela has achieved,” my friend whispered to me, “since I took her up.” (She composes). “But I do not approve of her accepting these social invitations. She is merely providing the hostess with a gratuitous entertainment.”
This view of the matter, from O’Hagan, surprised me. But later, the hostess said:
“Dear Miss Crichton, you will play us that last charming piece of yours, won’t you!”
Mrs. Pointzby-North’s request was sweetly proffered, but it was a sweetness akin to that with which, addressing a valued butler, she might have said:
“Milton, you will see that the bull-dogs are not permitted to fight in the drawing-room in future, won’t you!”
O’Hagan did not object to the tone of patronage, however. (“Mrs. Pointzby-North,” said he, “is a member of a very old and distinguished family.” That, of course, was final.)
But when Pamela began to play, delightfully, and everyone continued to chatter, simianly, he stood up.
“Rank has its obligations,” he said—and strode across to the player.
He took both her hands, and the flow of melody ceased upon an unexpected discord. Then came silence—the thrilling silence of surprise. Lolling gracefully upon the baby grand, my friend toyed with the black ribbon upon which his monocle dangles and glanced toward Mrs. Pointzby-North.
“My dear Mrs. North, as a very old and quite absurdly privileged friend, might I address a few words to everybody, without annoyance to you?”