The moments
passed--long, heavy, silent moments. Our host ascended trippingly to
an upper floor whence he could see farther down the drive. The guests
held themselves in smiling readiness. Our host descended and again
took up his post at a lower window.
The moments passed--stilled, leaden moments. The silence had become
intolerable. Our host jiggled on his feet. Some of the quicker-minded
guests made a pretence of little conversational flurries: "That second
movement--oh, exquisitely rendered!... No one has ever read Chopin so
divinely.... How his family must idolize him!... They say.... That
exquisite concerto!... Hasn't he the most stunning hair.... Those
staccato passages left me actually limp--I'm starting Myrtle in
Tuesday to take of Professor Gluckstein. She wants to take
stenography, but I tell her.... Did you think the preludes were just
the tiniest bit idealized.... I always say if one has one's music, and
one's books, of course--He must be very, _very_ fond of music!"
Such were the hushed, tentative fragments I caught.
The moments passed. Belknap-Jackson went to the telephone. "What? But
they're not here! Very strange! They should have been here half an
hour ago. Send some one--yes, at once." In the ensuing silence he
repaired to the buffet and drank a glass of vodka.
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