He played the same fugue over again, and she was lost in admiration of his supreme technical facility. Obviously this was Bach as he should be played, Bach as he was meant to be played, every note mathematically in place and in time; every arpeggio like a row of stones in one triumphant mosaic. She was not fond of Bach, and in her deepest self she knew that she disliked him for precisely the reason that Verreker liked him: he was so totally devoid of sentimentality. Yet she could not but admire the stern purposefulness of his style: the lofty grace of his structures, that serene beauty of which, because it is purely æsthetic, one never tires. When he had finished she said: “I want you to play some Debussy.” At first he seemed disinclined to accede to her request, but after a few seconds’ pause he started a slow sarabande movement. She listened enraptured till the end. “Isn’t that sentiment?” she asked. “No,” he replied curtly. “Then what is it?” He ground his teeth savagely. “Passion,” he snapped. “And what,” she asked softly--her voice was trembling--“is the difference between sentiment and passion?” He looked at her searchingly. “Don’t you know?” “I may do--I’m not certain.” “Well, if you do know, you don’t need me to tell you, and if you _don’t_ know, I can’t tell you.” At a quarter past nine they went downstairs. Catherine was leaving by the 9.30 train to Liverpool Street. They left by taxi to the station. Fortunately the train was late, or they would have missed it. In the alcove formed by two adjacent open carriage doors Catherine and he stood and talked till the guard whistled for the departure of the train. Their farewell was curious. She was leaning out of the window so that her head was above his. He sprang on to the foot-board as the train was moving and seized her hand. She wondered what he was going to do. She thought perhaps he might be going to kiss her. She waited for what seemed hours and then he suddenly vanished into the gloom of the station platform. Almost simultaneously she heard a porter’s raucous voice crying out: “Clear away there! What d’yer think yer doin’----” The rest trailed into inarticulate sound. Obviously he had been pulled down. The whole incident was somewhat undignified. Yet all the way to Liverpool Street she was speculating on what he had been about to do when the porter pulled him away. And she was happier than she had ever been in her life. § 9