“Did you say you knew Debussy?” he said suddenly. “I? No; but he used to come to see my father when I was a little girl.... I have been brought up in the middle of music.... That shows how silly it is to be a woman. There is no music in my head. Of course I am sensitive to it, but so are the tables and chairs in this apartment, after all they've heard.” Andrews started playing Schumann. He stopped suddenly. “Can you sing?” he said. “No.” “I'd like to do the Proses Lyriques.... I've never heard them.” “I once tried to sing Le Soir,” she said. “Wonderful. Do bring it out.” “But, good Lord, it's too difficult.” “What is the use of being fond of music if you aren't willing to mangle it for the sake of producing it?... I swear I'd rather hear a man picking out Aupres de ma Blonde on a trombone that Kreisler playing Paganini impeccably enough to make you ill.” “But there is a middle ground.” He interrupted her by starting to play again. As he played without looking at her, he felt that her eyes were fixed on him, that she was standing tensely behind him. Her hand touched his shoulder. He stopped playing. “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry,” she said. “Nothing. I am finished.” “You were playing something of your own?” “Have you ever read La Tentation de Saint Antoine?” he asked in a low voice. “Flaubert's?” “Yes.” “It's not his best work. A very interesting failure though,” she said. Andrews got up from the piano with difficulty, controlling a sudden growing irritation. “They seem to teach everybody to say that,” he muttered. Suddenly he realized that other people were in the room. He went up to Mme. Rod. “You must excuse me,” he said, “I have an engagement.... Aubrey, don't let me drag you away. I am late, I've got to run.” “You must come to see us again.” “Thank you,” mumbled Andrews. Genevieve Rod went with him to the door. “We must know each other better,” she said. “I like you for going off in a huff.” Andrews flushed. “I was badly brought up,” he said, pressing her thin cold hand. “And you French must always remember that we are barbarians.... Some are repentant barbarians.... I am not.” She laughed, and John Andrews ran down the stairs and out into the grey-blue streets, where the lamps were blooming into primrose color. He had a confused feeling that he had made a fool of himself, which made him writhe with helpless anger. He walked with long strides through the streets of the Rive Gauche full of people going home from work, towards the little wine shop on the Quai de la Tournelle.