Audrey said to herself.

“I’m glad this isn’t my drawing-room.”  And she was almost frightened by the thought that that skull opposite to her was absolutely impenetrable, and that it would go down to the grave unpierced with all its collection of ideas intact and braggart.

As for Mr. and Mrs. Spatt they were both in the state of not knowing where to look.  Immediately their gaze met another gaze it leapt away as from something dangerous or obscene.

“I will play Debussy’s Toccata for violin solo,” Musa announced tersely.  He had blushed; his great eyes were sparkling.  And he began to play.

And as soon as he had played a few bars, Audrey gave a start, fortunately not a physical start, and she blushed also.  Musa sternly winked at her.  Frenchmen do not make a practice of winking, but he had learnt the accomplishment for fun from Miss Thompkins in Paris.  The wink caused Audrey surreptitiously to observe Mr. and Mrs. Spatt.  It was no relief to her to perceive that these two were listening to Debussy’s Toccata for solo violin with the trained and appreciative attention of people who had heard it often before in the various capitals of Europe, who knew it by heart, and who knew at just what passages to raise the head, to give a nod of recognition or a gesture of ecstasy.  The bare room was filled with the sound of Musa’s fiddle and with the high musical culture of Mr. and Mrs. Spatt.  When the piece was over they clapped discreetly, and looked with soft intensity at Audrey, as if murmuring:  “You, too, are a cultured cosmopolitan.  You share our emotion.”  And across the face of Mrs. Spatt spread a glow triumphant, for Musa now positively had played for the first time in England in her drawing-room, and she foresaw hundreds of occasions on which she could refer to the matter with a fitting air of casualness.  The glow triumphant, however, paled somewhat as she felt upon herself the eye of Mr. Ziegler.

“Where is Siegfried, Alroy?” she demanded, after having thanked Musa.  “I wouldn’t have had him miss that Debussy for anything, but I hadn’t noticed that he was gone.  He adores Debussy.”

“I think it is like bad Bach,” Mr. Ziegler put in suddenly.  Then he raised his glass and imbibed a good portion of the beer specially obtained and provided for him by his hostess and admirer, Mrs. Spatt.

“Do you really?” murmured Mrs. Spatt, with deprecation.

“There’s something in the comparison,” Mr. Spatt admitted thoughtfully.

“Why not like good Bach?” Musa asked, glaring in a very strange manner at Mr. Ziegler.

“Bosh!” ejaculated Mr. Ziegler with a most notable imperturbability.  “Only Bach himself could com-pose good Bach.”

Musa’s breathing could be heard across the drawing-room.

“Eh bien!” said Musa.  “Now I will play for you Debussy’s Toccata.  I was not playing it before.  I was playing the Chaconne of Bach, the most famous composition for the violin in the world.”