He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The study seemed absolutely unaltered, there was still the same lamp with a little chip out of the shade, still the same gas fire, still the same bundle of blue and white papers, it seemed, with the same pink tape about them, at the elbow of the arm-chair, still the same father. ’ Saling coughed. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. "If you thought that, why did you give me this job?"—his voice faint and thick.
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