A hush came over the chattering throng, and old Groome began to play. We have all of us read in fiction—and out of it, for a matter of that—hysterically exaggerated accounts of wonderful musical performances. That word "wonderful" was the only word which could be properly applied to old Groome's performance then. Music? Well, it was a music—of a kind, though it was certainly the queerest music I had ever heard. The piece he played was not by any recognised composer; it was not even in the style of any recognised composer. To tell the truth, I am not sure that, in a musical sense, it was not nonsense; but, played as he played it then, it affected me in a way in which I would rather that music, or anything else, did not affect me. It made me lose my mental balance. As he played old Groome grew more and more excited, and in some strange fashion he managed to convey his own excitement to his audience. His was not the stereotyped excitement of the ordinary great pianist—of the type we know so well. That is generally confined—very much confined—to the performer at the instrument. This was communicated to the folk in front. It affected me. I fancy it affected Bensberg. And when old Groome ceased playing there ensued that silence which is more eloquent than applause, and it was only after a moment or two that a din began which was simply deafening.
Bensberg turned to me amidst the tumult.
"What do you think of it?"
"I don't know what to think."
"Did I not tell you?"
Charging into the crowd, I reached the daĭs just as
