Martin waited, and then began one of the Suites Anglaises, and like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room, or like a cloudless dawn with the singing of birds after a night of storm and thunder, the exquisite melody flowed from his fingers, precise, youthful, and joyous. There was no introspection here, no moods of a troubled soul, no doubts or questioning; it sang as a thrush sings, changed and returned on itself, danced in a gavotte, moved slowly in a minuet, and romped through a Bourrée like a child. At the end Martin laughed suddenly. “Oh, how good!” he cried. “Did you know that Bach wrote that for me?” he asked, turning to Karl. “Yes, I thought he must have,” said Karl. “And with the command that you were to play it to me. You played that very well; all your fingers were of one weight. How did you learn that?” Martin raised his eyebrows. “Why, it would spoil it, would it not, to play it any other way?” he asked. “Certainly it would.” Then he got up quickly. “Oh, Martin, you child,” he said. “Did I speak to you roughly about the Schumann?” “You did rather,” he said. “But I deserved to have my ears boxed.” * * * * * The two dined alone, and held heated arguments, not like master and pupil, but like two students who worked side by side, Karl as often as not deferring to the other, Martin as often as not blandly disagreeing with Karl. “How can you pronounce, for instance,” he asked, “that that Novelette is to be played with those sweatings and groanings, the mere notes being of no use, whereas Bach is to be played with notes only?” Karl gazed at him in silence. “You impertinent infant,” he said. “What else do you propose? To play the Schumann as you played it? And the Bach as I played the Schumann?” “That would sound extremely funny,” remarked Martin. “No, I don’t say you are not right; but how do you know you are right?” “Because Bach wrote for the spinet,” said Karl. “Have you ever tried to play Schumann on a spinet? It sounds exactly as you made it sound just now. A deplorable performance, my poor boy.” “You have told me that. Don’t rub it in so. I shall play it very well to-morrow.” “Or next year,” said Karl, still grim, but inwardly full of laughter. “By the way, there was no ‘dog’ motive in the Lady Sunningdale composition.” “You can’t have been attending,” said Martin. “Suez Canal came in twice, and Sahara three times, with shrill barks. Yes, please, another cutlet.” Karl watched him eat it. The process took about five seconds. “You didn’t taste that,” he remarked. “No; it was needed elsewhere,” said Martin. “But I’m sure it was very good.” Karl lingered over the bouquet of his Burgundy.