Alma enjoyed the flattery. Comfortable in her chair, she showed no
disposition to move. Dymes asked her what she thought of playing, and
she told him, Hauser's 'Rhapsodie Hongroise'.

'I'm always being bored by amateurs,' he resumed. 'A silly woman who
belongs to a Symphony Society asked me yesterday to go and hear her
play in the C minor! I begged to be told what harm I had ever done her,
and she said I was very rude. But I always am to people of that sort; I
can't help it. Another of them asked me to tell her of a _nice_ piece
for the piano--a really nice piece. At once I suggested Chopin's A flat
major Polonaise. Do you know it?'

'Of course I do. Could you play it yourself?'

'I? Of course not. You don't imagine that because one is a successful
composer he must be a brilliant virtuoso. I hardly ever touch a musical
instrument. Wagner was a very poor player, and Berlioz simply couldn't
play at all. I'm a musical dreamer. Do you know that I literally dreamt
"The Light of Home"? Now, that's a proof of genius.'

Alma laughed.

'But it is! Do you know how most songs get made nowadays? There's
Sykes' "Come when the Dawn"--you remember it? I happen to know all
about that. A fellow about town somehow got hold of an idea for a
melody; he didn't know a note, but he whistled it to Sykes, and Sykes
dotted it down. Now, Sykes knows no more of harmony than a broomstick,
so he got another man to harmonise it, and then a fourth fellow wrote
an orchestral accompaniment. That's the kind of thing--division of
labour in art.'

'You're quite sure you do everything for yourself?' said Alma
mischievously, rising at length.

'I forgive you, because you're really one of us--you are, you know. You
haven't the look of an amateur. Now, when you've gone out, I'll ask
Sammy, behind the counter there, who he thinks you are, and I'll give
Mrs. Rayner Mann a guinea for her charity if he doesn't take you for a
professional musician.'

'You will be good enough, Mr. Dymes,' said Alma severely, 'not to speak
of me at all to anyone behind a counter.'

'It was only a joke. Of course, I shouldn't have done anything of the
kind. Goodbye; shall see you at Putney.'

For all that, no sooner was Mrs. Rolfe gone than Dymes did talk of her
with the salesman, and in a way peculiar to his species, managing, with
leers and half-phrases, to suggest not only that the lady was a
performer of distinction, but that, like women in general, she had
found