He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. But at the beginning of the affray, when he thought every one was too much occupied with his own concerns to remark his absence, he slipped out of the room, not for the purpose of avoiding the engagement (for cowardice was not one of his failings), but because he had another object in view. Show him no quarter, Poll. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether.
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