But Mr. Kelton had not yet exhausted his resources of irritation, for when Mr. Mozart Tutt sat down to the piano to play the “Moonlight Sonata,” instead of joining heartily in the greeting that the conductor received, as any one with any sense would have done, in order to give the audience to understand that, however he might differ from Mr. Tutt on certain points in playing an accompaniment, he was still generous enough to recognize the man’s merit when displayed in other channels--instead of doing this, with emphasis, he yawned ostentatiously, tilting back his chair, with his hand over his mouth. Then he began to talk to the man beside him, and a little later he smiled down upon Priscilla in the third row and signalled something to her, afterwards lying back and laughing up to the ceiling, and, on recovering himself, assuming a bored look, and taking out his watch and putting it to his ear as if to satisfy his doubts as to the accuracy of its registration of an inexpressibly dull five minutes. Mrs. Caffyn was not a very observant woman, but she made up her mind that she would never again write a letter of entreaty to Mr. Kelton concerning her concert. Even though the patronage of the Bowlby-Suthersts were reserved, still she would not bore him again. The tenor’s two songs had no place in the first part of the programme, and he did not resume his seat on the platform after the interval between the parts. He always took care that his entrance was made at the effective moment--when the audience had become warmed up, but not weary; and of course Priscilla had to leave her place in the body of the hall to await his moment in the little room where tea was brewed upon the occasion of some festivity involving the brewing of tea and the distribution of buns. Here she sat with Mr. Kelton and a couple of “soprani,” as they were styled in the programme, whom Mr. Kelton made laugh by his clever imitation of Mr. Morley Quorn’s “Wolf.” He was under the impression, he said, that no concert direction was in so bad a way but that they could keep “The Wolf” from the door. But then Framsby was a funny place altogether. Fancy “Honour and Arms,” “The Wolf,” and that blessed “Moonlight Sonata” all in one evening! There was no other town known to him where so old-fashioned a programme would be tolerated. Then he cleared his throat, and ran up the scale once or twice as he had heard artists do while waiting for their turn. “Are you in good voice, Mr. Kelton?” enquired Priscilla. “Your song is the next.” He smiled. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I am not like one of those tenors of long ago who could never be depended on from one day to another--Sims Reeves, you know--people of that stamp. No, I am always to be depended on. I am always at my best.” “And never nervous?” she suggested. “I don’t know what nerves are,” he replied.