On coming to himself, he found he had been wrapped in a blanket and put to bed with a couple of hot bricks to his feet. From the first, Ann Veronica found him an exceptionally interesting man. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. He was asleep. And Suzanne, even that she has behaved to me not at all like a mother, would also not have said. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless.
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