She dreaded leaving him for the night, but separated herself finally. There’s no logic in these things. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. She waited expectantly. The program was to include a Bach cantata, her favorite piece from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and for the first time ever, a student composition, a Concerto, by a precociously talented fellow student named Martin Chen. You see—I didn’t understand. She found it rather funny that he always wore the shirt fastidiously tucked in and never wore the ensemble without a stiff brown leather belt. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. “Ferringhall, were you or were you not dining last night at a certain restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiennes with—la petite Pellissier?” Now indeed Sir John was moved.
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