“What I want to say----” he started suddenly. “It’s like this. I believe there was a--a sort of--er--misunderstanding between us at one time. Now I’m not prepared to say that I was altogether right. In fact----” “I don’t remember any misunderstanding. I think I at any rate understood you perfectly. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Well, to put it bluntly, what happened was----” “Excuse me. I _must_ let them hear the piano as they come out of the Forest. Sorry to cut short our argument, but I don’t feel metaphysical.... What shall I play? Something appropriate.... Suggest something!” He sat rather gracelessly on the parapet watching her as she skipped over to the piano. The expression on his face was one of bafflement. “I really don’t----” he called ineffectually. For answer she began the pianoforte accompaniment of Landon Ronald’s “Down in the Forest.” A moment later over the fringe of Forest still untraversed came the voice of the soprano singer, clear and tremulous, but not particularly musical. “Down in the Forest something stirred,” she sang, and Catherine laughed as she caught the sound.... § 4 About twenty minutes to midnight the tenor singer (with baritone leanings) whispered to George Trant: “I say, ol’ chap. You’d better l’kafter tha’ l’l gaerl of yours.” “What d’you mean?” “Wha’ I say. She’s had too much.” “But really, I don’t think----” “Two glasses sherry, one hock, three champagne, two port ... I’ve took notice.” “She’s a bit noisy, I’ll admit.... But she was quite lively enough as we came along. It’s her mood, I think, mostly.” The party had left the table and split up into groups of twos and threes. Some lingered sentimentally on the balcony; the violinist, who was just a shade fuddled, lay sprawled across a couch with his eyes closed. Catherine was at the piano, making the most extraordinary din imaginable. Surrounding her were a group of young men in evening dress, singers and comedians and monologuists and what not. George Trant and the tenor singer stood at the French windows, smoking cigars and listening to the sounds that proceeded from the piano. “We shall have the manager up,” said George, nervously. “He’ll say we’re damaging the instrument.... I wish she’d quieten down a bit. The whole place must be being kept awake....” Catherine’s voice, shrill and challenging, pierced the din. “Impressions of Bockley High Street--nine p.m. Saturday night,” she yelled, and pandemonium raged over the keyboard. It was really quite a creditable piece of musical post-impressionism. But the noise was terrific. Glissandos in the treble, octave chromatics in the bass, terrible futurist chords and bewildering rhythms, all combined to make the performance somewhat painful. Her select audience applauded enthusiastically. George Trant moved rather nervously towards the piano.