some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay;
yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy
had decided that they should triumph.

A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the
thing she really liked, and after lunch she opened the little
draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her
playing, but finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their
rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice
of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking
for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her
cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by
the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own;
and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire.

Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this
illogical element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion
at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of
those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower.
The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies
and gentlemen of the parish, under the auspices of their vicar,
sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork.
Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch. Piano.
Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be
Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure
was disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in suspense
all through the introduction, for not until the pace quickens
does one know what the performer intends. With the roar of the
opening theme he knew that things were going extraordinarily; in
the chords that herald the conclusion he heard the hammer strokes