ice agent, had made swift use of
his crutches and stumps and was at the moment climbing into a
waiting taxicab.

Whatever West's opinion may have been, Blizzard was making a
sufficiently innocent disposition of time. He had prevented an
elopement, perhaps. And he was on his way to a prominent florist to fill
his cab with flowers for the evening's entertainment.

He was in a curiously shy and nervous state of mind. There was perhaps
no man living whose hands were more nearly at home upon the key-board of
a piano, or whose mind was more disdainful of other people's opinions.
But of the fact that he was suffering from incipient stage fright there
could be no doubt whatever. Would this inoculate his playing, keep the
soul out of it? Or worse, would it cause him to strike wrong notes, and
even to forget whole passages, so that his guests, and of course
Barbara, would go away in the impression that they had heard a boastful
person make an ass of himself? He was almost minded to begin his concert
with an imitation of a virtuoso suffering from stage fright. If there
was going to be laughter, let it be thought that he was not the
irresponsible cause of it, but the deliberate and responsible. What
should he play? Violent things to get his hands in and his courage up,
and then Chopin? Let Chopin speak up on his behalf to Barbara; tell her
how he had suffered; how you must not judge him until you understood the
suffering; how there was still in him a soul that looked up from the
depths, and aspired to beautiful things? Yes, let Chopin speak to her,
plead with her, reason with her, show her, lead her.

He descended from the cab, and entered the florist's.

XXIV

Barbara paid Blizzard the compliment of inviting only people who were
really fond of music to hear him play. The Braces, Adrian Savage, Blythe
the architect, young Morton Haddon, and Barbara herself, composed the
party. They dined on a roof, and then, occupying two taxicabs, started
for Marrow Lane in the highest spirits. But the East Side had its way
with them, and they reached their destination in a serious mood,
ashamed, perhaps, of being rich and fortunate, unhappy at feeling
themselves envied and hated. Bruce, Adrian Savage, and Barbara were in
the leading cab, a brand-new one smelling of leather, and of the
gardenia which Barbara was wearing. The filth of the East Side came no
nearer to them than the tires of the cab. They were, you may say,
insulated, en