“I say, Verreker, hass not the young lady come?” The man addressed as Verreker replied somewhat curtly: “Oh yes, she’s here.” “Zhen perhaps she weel go to the piano and play.” Catherine left her chair and went to the instrument. Before sitting down she took off her hat--which was a species of tam-o’-shanter--and placed it on the table beside the piano. She did this from two reasons: first, she did not feel comfortable with it on; and second, she was proud of her hair, and conscious that it was the most impressive thing about her. “What shall I play?” she asked nonchalantly. She could not help betraying her annoyance at her unceremonious reception. There was a pause. It seemed almost as if both men were struck dumb with astonishment at her amazing question. Then Verreker said carelessly, as if it were a matter of no consequence at all: “Oh, whatever you like.” She took several moments to adjust the music-stool to her final satisfaction and prepare for playing. The time was useful to decide what she should play. Strange that she should not have decided before! She had decided before, as a matter of fact: she had decided to play some Debussy. But since entering the room she had changed her mind. She would play Chopin. She played “Poland is Lost.” She played it well, because she was feeling defiant. She played with the same complete disrespect for her audience as had won her the first prize at the musical eisteddfod. Where she wanted to bang, she banged. She did not care that she was in a low-roofed dining-room and not a concert hall. She did not care if she pleased or displeased them. They were contemptuous of her: she would be contemptuous of them. The result was that she was not in the least nervous. Yet when she had struck the last note she could not help remarking to herself: “I _did_ play that well. They _must_ have been rather impressed.” An awkward pause ensued. Then Verreker said very weakly: “Thank you.” His “thank you” was almost ruder than if he had said nothing at all. “Well?” said Razounov. Catherine thought he was speaking to her. She was meditating something in reply when Verreker spoke, showing that the word had been addressed to him. A feeling of exquisite relief that she had not spoken came over her. “She oughtn’t to play Chopin,” remarked Verreker. “No,” agreed Razounov. Catherine’s face reddened. It was the subtle innuendo of their remarks that hurt her. Also, by all the standards she had learnt at the Bockley High School for Girls there was something impolite in their criticizing her coolly in the third person as if she were not present. She resented it. She was not a stickler for etiquette, but she would not be insulted. “I don’t care who they are,” she thought rebelliously, “they’ve no right to treat me like that. I’m as good as they are, every bit!” A long pause seemed to intensify the sinister significance of their previous remarks.