“He’s not half so scared as I am,” said Earle.

“I expect you’ll forget your Debussy in the middle and have to play ‘Mary Lou’.”

“Nobody would notice.”

“Don’t you get being so nasty, my boy,” said Mary. “You ain’t got no call ter be so bitter at your time of life, and you so ’andsome.”

“I think Oldway would notice,” said Margaret. “He’d write that Mr. Gardiner’s tempo left much to be desired.”

“Now, children,” said Mary, “we must eat. Maurice, don’t be a pig. If you’re too proud to have your dinner with us, you can leave ours alone.”

Maurice was at his usual trick of sampling the food. He licked his fingers.

“Yes, I’ll pass that. But it’s not so good as the one we had when Edward was here. He’s easily the best fish-pie maker we’ve got.”

“You might tell Georges we’re ready,” said Mary to Anne, glancing quickly—she couldn’t help it—at Margaret’s face.

“Heavens, I must wash,” said Margaret. “I’m simply filthy.”

*   *   *

Eric sat at the card-table, murmuring:

“Only members sign. Please give up your guest-tickets inside the door.”

Rich old ladies in black silk, with veils, assisted by artistic nieces, passed along the passage into the concert-room, complaining of the stairs.

“My dear, are you sure this is the place?” one of them asked, with distaste.

Lady Croker, always rude, said that the passage was too narrow. The headmistress of a large girls’ school gushed to Eric:

“We’re sure this is going to be a real treat.”

An elderly colonel, sent by his wife, came out to complain that members were keeping as many as three seats for friends and putting mackintoshes on them. A small newly joined member couldn’t believe that one was allowed to sit wherever one liked. Two or three men lingered by the door, waiting for their chance to ask Eric where the lavatory was. A flustered lady wanted to know:

“Can you tell me, will my membership card and these three guest-tickets cover the next three concerts, if I bring a friend who had a half-season ticket last year but couldn’t use it?”

Eric had to deal with all these people. Sometimes he referred them to Mary, who was standing just inside the door. He could hear her strong reassuring voice, soothing all these unhappy creatures, promising everything, anything:

“Oh, yes, I’m sure that’ll be perfectly all right.”

Students came from the Royal College, bringing gaudy cushions, knowing that they were too late for the deck-chairs. Pale cultured Jews, rich amateurs. An Oxford don. The critics, with peevish frowns of predisposed boredom, treading on other people’s toes. A few millionaire bohemians, in suits of rough, baggy, expensive tweed. A French teacher of languages. A famous actress. A chemistry master from a public school. Fragments of talk: