after the regular dinner, to explain why he had come to London to see her.  She was angry with him for that dark hostility which he had at once displayed towards Mr. Ziegler, though she herself hated the innocent Mr. Ziegler with the ferocity of a woman of the Revolution.  And further, she was glad, ridiculously glad, that Musa had come to London to see her.  Lastly she was aware of a most irrational objection to the manner in which Miss Nickall and Musa said good night to one another, and the obvious fact that Musa in less than an hour had reached terms of familiarity with Jane Foley.

She thought: 

“I haven’t the faintest idea why he has given up his practising in Paris to come to see me.  But if it is what I feel sure it is, there will be trouble....  Why do I stay in this ghastly drawing-room?  I am dying to go to sleep, and I simply detest everybody in the room.  I detest Musa more than all, because as usual he has been acting like a child....  Why can’t you smile at him, Audrey Moze?  Why frown and pretend you’re cross when you know you aren’t, Audrey Moze? ...  I am cross, and he shall suffer.  Was this a time to leave his practising—­and the concerts soon coming on?  I positively prefer this Ziegler man to him.  Yes, I do.”  So ran her reflections, and they annoyed her.

“What would you wish me to play?” asked Musa, when he had definitely finished twanging.  Audrey noticed that his English accent was getting a little less French.  She had to admit that, though his appearance was extravagantly un-British, it was distinguished.  The immensity of his black silk cravat made the black cravat of Mr. Spatt seem like a bootlace round his thin neck.

“Whatever you like, Mr. Musa,” replied Aurora Spatt. “Please!”

And as a fact the excellent woman, majestic now in spite of her red nose and her excessive thinness, did not care what Musa played.  He had merely to play.  She had decided for herself, from the conversation, that he was a very celebrated performer, and she had ascertained, by direct questioning, that he had never performed in England.  She was determined to be able to say to all comers till death took her that “Musa—­the great Musa, you know—­first played in England in my own humble drawing-room.”  The thing itself was actually about to occur; nothing could stop it from occurring; and the thought of the immediate realisation of her desire and ambition gave Mrs. Spatt greater and more real pleasure than she had had for years; it even fortified her against the possible resentment of her cherished Mr. Ziegler.

“French music—­would you wish?” Musa suggested.

“Is there any French music?  That is to say, of artistic importance?” asked Mr. Ziegler calmly.  “I have never heard of it.”

He was not consciously being rude.  Nor was he trying to be funny.  His question implied an honest belief.  His assertion was sincere.  He glanced, blinking slightly, round the room, with a self-confidence that was either terrible or pathetic, according to the degree of your own self-confidence.