“I shouldn’t make quite so much noise,” he began, but nobody heard him. Catherine was crying out “Marbl’arch, Benk, L’pol Street,” in the approved jargon of the omnibus conductor, and was simultaneously making motor-bus noises on the piano. Everybody was laughing, because the mimicry of her voice was really excellent. George felt himself unable to raise his voice above the din. He paused a moment immediately behind her back and then touched her lightly on the shoulder. She did not heed. He touched her again somewhat more violently than before. She stopped abruptly both her instrumental and vocal effects, and swung round suddenly on the revolving music-stool so as to face him. Her eyes were preternaturally bright. “Excuse me,” he began, and something in her eyes as she looked up at him made him doubly nervous, “but perhaps it would be better if you didn’t make quite such a noise.... You see, the other people ...” he added vaguely. There was absolute silence now. The last echo of the piano had died away, and the select audience waited rather breathlessly for what might happen. Catherine rose. There was that greenish-brown glint in her eyes that made fierce harmony with her hair. For a moment she looked at him unflinchingly. There was certainly defiance, perhaps contempt in her eyes. “Who are _you_?” she said, with quiet insolence. Somebody tittered. George Trant looked and felt uncomfortable. For answer he turned slowly on his heel and walked away. It seemed on the whole the most dignified thing to do. Catherine flushed fiercely. Like a tigress she bounded to his side and made him stop. “For God’s sake, don’t sulk!” she cried wildly. “Wake up and say something! Don’t stand there like a stone sphinx! Wake up!” With a quick leap she sprang upwards and ran her two hands backwards and forwards through his hair. His hair was long and lank and well plastered. After she had finished with it it stood bolt upright on his head like a donkey fringe. Everyone roared with laughter. During the progress of this operation the interior door had been opened and a man had entered. In the noise and excitement of the mêlée he was not noticed. He was tall, severe-looking and in evening dress. When the excitement subsided they found him standing a little awkwardly on the edge of the scuffle. Catherine thought he was at least an underwaiter, come to complain of the noise they were making. He bowed very slightly, and immediately everybody felt sure he was a waiter. Only a professional could have bowed so chillingly. Catherine, with flushed face and dishevelled hair, leaned against a chair, panting from her exertion. “I do not wish to interrupt,” began the stranger, and there _might_ have been sarcasm in his voice, “but I have been commissioned to deliver a message to Miss Weston. Which is Miss Weston?”