He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. One who steals. Neither he nor Gerald chose to attire themselves in full military rig on fashionable occasions such as this. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. “I am sure you will marry Nigel sooner or later, and then all your work will be thrown away. She let out a wail.
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