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he played was a favourite gavotte of mine—one of those slight, graceful, and easy melodies that seem to smell of lavande ambrée, and in some way or other put you in mind of Lulli and Watteau, of powdered ladies dressed in yellow satin gowns, flirting with their fans."
"And then?"
"As he reached the end of the piece, he cast several sidelong glances towards—as I thought—the lady patroness. When he was about to rise, my mother—who was seated behind me—tapped me on my shoulder with her fan, only to make one of the many unseasonable remarks women are for ever pestering you with, so that, by the time I had turned round to applaud, he had disappeared."
"And what happened afterwards?"
"Let me see. I think there was some singing."
"But did he not play any more?"
"Oh, yes! He came out again towards the middle of the concert. As he bowed, before taking his place at the piano, his eyes seemed to be looking out for someone in the pit. It was
