‘There is no one who could have told him this. Greece was a different place. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. He was always in a state of semi-intoxication, but he was always gentle with me. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided.
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