I have been told, it was always La prière d'une vierge.
He did not make a tentative attack on the keyboard, as is the bad habit of amateurs. Instead, he plunged at once into a conglomeration of harsh seconds. After a few raucous but brilliant wrestlings with the keys, he ceased.
What do you call it? Campaspe demanded.
Fourteenth Street. It's part of my Manhattan Suite.
Play Fifteenth Street, suggested Harold.
I haven't written all the streets, only twenty-five of them, and not consecutively.
Sheridan Square! was Paul's idea.
Certainly not. . . . I'll play you Sutton Place if you like.
Not that! cried Campaspe. We must have some reservations.
I'll play you Albéniz's Triana, said the intransigent musician, and he did play a few bars, but he broke off in the middle of one with the cry, J'en ai marre!
Play that!
J'en ai marre! J'en ai marre!
After a cocktail, Bunny was more complaisant.
I'll play Columbus Circle.
Childs' by moonlight?
The Maine Monument in the late afternoon?
The Columbus statue?
