The young man looked at the singer and said nothing; but the anger in her face was reflected in his, and mingled with a flaming of sympathy that made his appearance almost startling. The white-haired woman clasped the singer’s hands and said, “Thank you, dearest!” in a thrilling voice, and the little dark woman with the red fan cried out, “Viola, you simply pack up Venice, carry it over the Continent and set it down here in London!” Lady Holme frowned slightly. “Thank you, thank you, you good-natured dears,” she said with an attempt at lightness. Then, hearing the thin rustle of a dress, she turned sharply and cast an unfriendly glance at a mild young woman with a very pointed nose, on which a pair of eyeglasses sat astride, who came meekly forward, looking self-conscious, and smiling with one side of her mouth. The man with the protruding jaw, who was Lord Holme, said to her, in a loud bass voice: “Thanks, Miss Filberte, thanks.” “Oh, not at all, Lord Holme,” replied the accompanist with a sudden air of rather foolish delight. “I consider it an honour to accompany an amateur who sings like Lady Holme.” She laid a slight emphasis on the word “amateur.” Lady Holme suddenly walked forward to an empty part of the drawing-room. The elderly man, whose name was Sir Donald Ulford, made a movement as if to follow her, then cleared his throat and stood still looking after her. Lord Holme stuck out his under jaw. But Lady Cardington, the white-haired woman spoke to him softly, and he leaned over to her and replied. The sleek man, whose name was Mr. Bry, began to talk about Tschaikowsky to Mrs. Henry Wolfstein, the woman with the red fan. He uttered his remarks authoritatively in a slow and languid voice, looking at the pointed toes of his shoes. Conversation became general. Robin Pierce, the tall young man, stood alone for a few minutes. Two or three times he glanced towards Lady Holme, who had sat down on a sofa, and was opening and shutting a small silver box which she had picked up from a table near her. Then he walked quietly up the room and sat down beside her. “Why on earth didn’t you accompany yourself?” he asked in a low voice. “You knew what a muddler that girl was, I suppose.” “Yes. She plays like a distracted black beetle--horrid creature!” “Then--why?” “I look ridiculous sitting at the piano.” “Ridiculous--you--” “Well, I hold them far more when I stand up. They can’t get away from me then.” “And you’d rather have your singing ruined than part for a moment with a scrap of your physical influence, of the influence that comes from your beauty, not your talent--your face, not your soul. Viola, you’re just the same.” “Lady Holme,” she said. “P’sh! Why?” “My little husband’s fussy.” “And much you care if he is.” “Oh, yes, I do. He sprawls when he fusses and knocks things over, and then, when I’ve soothed him, he always goes and does Sandow exercises and gets bigger. And he’s big enough as it is. I must keep him quiet.”