“May I hear?” “It really isn’t much to tell,” Drummond answered. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. Holcroft, we may have been mistaken. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. After these dinners they would have a walk, usually to the Thames Embankment to see the two sweeps of river on either side of Waterloo Bridge; and then they would part at Westminster Bridge, perhaps, and he would go on to Waterloo. “Hey you,” he said affectionately.
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