The rare music interested but a handful, and the audience that had come from London shivered in remembrance of the east wind which had accompanied their journey.  But this little martyrdom did not seem to be entirely without its satisfactions, and conscious of superiority, they settled themselves to listen to the few words of explanation with which Mr. Innes was accustomed to introduce the music that was going to be played.  He was speaking, when he was interrupted by the servant-maid, who whispered and gave him a card:  “Sir Owen Asher, Bart., 27 Berkeley Square.”  He left the room hurriedly, and his audience surmised from his manner that something important had happened.

Sir Owen, seemingly a tall man, certainly above the medium height, was waiting for him in the passage.  His thin figure was wrapped tightly in an overcoat, most of his face was concealed in the collar, and the pale gold-coloured moustache showed in contrast to the dark brown fur.  The face, wide across the forehead, acquired an accent in the pointed chin and strongly marked jaw.  The straight nose was thin and well shaped in the nostrils.  “An attractive man of forty” would be the criticism of a woman.  Sir Owen’s attractiveness concentrated in his sparkling eyes and his manner, which was at once courteous and manly.  He told Mr. Innes that he had heard of his concerts that morning at the office of the Wagnerian Review, and Mr. Innes indulged in his habitual dream of a wealthy patron who would help him to realise his musical ambitions.  Sir Owen had just bought the periodical, he intended to make it an organ of advanced musical culture, and would like to include a criticism of these concerts.  Mr. Innes begged Sir Owen to come into the concert-room.  But while taking off his coat, Sir Owen mentioned what he had heard regarding Mr. Innes’s desire to revive the vocal masses of the sixteenth century at St. Joseph’s, and the interest of this conversation delayed them a little in the passage.

The baronet’s evening clothes were too well cut for those of a poet, a designer of wall paper, or a journalist, and his hands were too white and well cared for at the nails.  His hair was pale brown, curling a little at the ends, and carefully brushed and looking as if it had been freshened by some faintest application of perfumed essence.  Three pearl studs fastened his shirt front, and his necktie was tied in a butterfly bow.  He displayed some of the nonchalant ease which wealth and position create, smiled a little on catching sight of the jersey worn by a lady who had neglected to fasten the back of her bodice, and strove to decipher the impression the faces conveyed to him.  He grew aware of that flitting anxiety which is inseparable from the task of finding a daily living, and that pathos which tells of fidelity to idea and abstinence from gross pleasure.  A young man, who stood apart, in a carefully studied attitude, a dark lock of hair falling over his forehead, amused him, and the young man in the chair next Sir Owen wore a threadbare coat and clumsy boots, and sat bolt upright.  Sir Owen pitied him and imagined him working all day in some obscure employment, finding his life’s pleasure once a week in a score by Bach.  Catching sight of a priest’s profile, a look of contempt appeared on his face.