And rather unscrupulous. After feasting his eye upon this superb panorama, he was about to return, when he ascertained from a farmer that his nearest road to Willesden would be down a lane a little further on, to the right. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. For the most part these were detached people: men practising the plastic arts, young writers, young men in employment, a very large proportion of girls and women—self-supporting women or girls of the student class. The flat was apparently empty. He was amused. For a moment she remained silent.
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