e's never given me a day's trouble since he was
born."

"No. It's other women he'll give trouble to," said John, "before he's
done."

iii

Colin was playing. All afternoon he had been practising with fury; first
scales, then exercises. Then a pause; and now, his fingers slipped into
the first movement of the Waldstein Sonata.

Secretly, mysteriously he began; then broke, sharply, impatiently,
crescendo, as the passion of the music mounted up and up. And now as it
settled into its rhythm his hands ran smoothly and joyously along.

The west window of the drawing-room was open to the terrace. Eliot and
Anne sat out there and listened.

"He's wonderful, isn't he?" she said.

Eliot shook his head. "Not so wonderful as he was. Not half so wonderful
as he ought to be. He'll never be good enough for a professional. He
knows he won't."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing. That's just it. Nothing ever will happen. He's stuck. It's the
same with his singing. He'll never be any good if he can't go away and
study somewhere. If it isn't Berlin or Leipzig it ought to be London.
But father can't live there and the mater won't go anywhere without him.
So poor Col-Col's got to stick here doing nothing, with the same rotten
old masters telling him things he knew years ago.... It'll be worse next
term when he goes to Cheltenham. He won't be able to practice, and
nobody'll care a damn.... Not that that would matter if he cared
himself."

Colin was playing the slow movement now, the grave, pure passion,
pressed out from the solemn bass, throbbed, tense with restraint.

"Oh Eliot, he _does_ care."

"In a way. Not enough to keep on at it. You've got to slog like blazes,
if you want to get on."

"Jerrold won't, ever, then."

"Oh yes he will. _He'll_ get on all right, because he _doesn't_ care;
because work comes so jolly easy to him. He hasn't got to break his
heart over it.... The trouble with Colin is that he cares, awfully, for
such a lot of other things. Us, for instance. He'll leave off in the
middle of a movement if he hears Jerrold yelling for him. He ought to be
able to chuck us all; we're all of us in his way. He ought to hate us.
He ought to hate Jerrold worst of all."

Adeline and John Severn came round the corner of the terrace.

"What's all this about hating?" he said.

"What do you mean, Eliot?" said she.

Eliot raised himself wearily. "I mean," he said, "you'll never be any
good at anything if you're not prep