He raised his eyes to Leigh's face, smiling encouragement. He saw Ada's eyes on him, too, mysterious behind a faint veil of smoke. He wished she were not there. Her presence dimmed the brightness of his contact with the keyboard, as the smoke dimmed the brightness of her eyes. He felt confused. He did not seem able to remember one piece from another.
"What shall I play?" he appealed to Leigh.
"Dear old fellow, I don't know what things you've done. Can you play Chopin? You look as though you could."
"Yes. I'll try one of his waltzes."
But, though his fingers ached to gather the notes, his brain refused to guide them.
"Oh, hell!" he muttered to Leigh. "I'm up against one of my fool fits!"
Late that night he wrote in his diary, at the end of the account of his day's doings, not the usual item concerning Joan, but in black, desperate-looking characters, the words "Met Ada."
