easily now, and not one of them will run quite clear.
That's what Wagner's done."

Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like
birds. If only he could talk like this, he would have
caught the world. Oh to acquire culture! Oh, to pronounce
foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed,
discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started!
But it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a
few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to
catch up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily
from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he might
have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that
he could not string them together into a sentence, he could
not make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his
stolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble.
Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with the
steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my umbrella will be all
right," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about it. I
will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will
be all right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about
seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two shillings?
Earlier still he had wondered, "Shall I try to do without a
programme?" There had always been something to worry him
ever since he could remember, always something that
distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue
beauty, and therefore, Margaret's speeches did flutter away
from him like birds.

Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, "Don't you