Partly to occupy her time when she was not practising the piano Catherine joined the Bockley Free Library. She read most of the Victorian poets, and was oppressed by the heavy sentimentality of Tennyson. But she was not really fond of reading; it was only loneliness that drove her to it. Only one of Dickens’ novels fascinated her, and that was _Great Expectations_. But for _Jane Eyre_ and _Wuthering Heights_ she had a passionate admiration. Once she discovered a book by Verreker. It was called _Growth of the Village Community_. Obeying a swift impulse, she took it out and went home with it. That evening she wrestled with the first chapter.... Her amazement that anybody could write such a thing was only equalled by her amazement that anybody could read it. It was to Scott in point of heaviness as a hydraulic press is to a pound weight. It did not precisely raise her opinion of Verreker in the way that might have been expected. It amazed her, but it also made her think: “What’s the good of all this useless learning? It makes no difference to him. Nobody would know how clever he is to look at him. And yet he must have been studying these weird problems for years.” ... She had no sympathy with the remorseless pursuit of knowledge. Her forte was the pursuit of experience. CHAPTER XIV HOPE ENTERS § 1 ARRIVED at Gifford Road one summer’s evening after a dusty journey on top of a crowded motor-bus, Catherine took pen and paper immediately (without taking off her hat) and wrote: DEAR MR. VERREKER, I am thinking of giving a pianoforte recital in one of the London concert halls. I should be very grateful for your advice and assistance in the matter. Will you do this for me? Yours sincerely, CATHERINE WESTON. When Catherine had set out some hours before she had had no thoughts of a pianoforte recital. To be sure, the idea was always revolving more or less nebulously in her line of vision, but till this moment it had lacked definition. A pianoforte recital involved a good deal of risk. It meant hours and hours of preparatory practice, much worry and anxiety, and the possible loss of a good deal of money. It meant running the gauntlet of all the blasé and supercilious musical critics. It meant learning some good solid “background” piece of work to placate the British public--something heavy and hackneyed and academic--a Brahms sonata or some Beethoven pomposity. And to consult Verreker on the matter was merely to invite showers of disappointment and disillusionment. He would assuredly recommend her not to attempt a recital. He would tell her candidly that her abilities were not equal to it. And if she insisted, he would tell her to go somewhere else for advice: he would not risk his reputation by backing her. He would be violently rude and outspoken. He would repeat his dictum that she could never advance beyond the front rank of the second-raters....