crowd that surged through the ground-floor and out of the glass doors,
and much noisy ado, for the majority was made up of young people, at
an age that enjoys the sound of its own voice. In black, diverging
lines they poured through the heavy swinging doors, which flapped
ceaselessly to and fro, never quite closing, always opening afresh,
and on descending the shallow steps, they told off into groups, where
all talked at once, with lively gesticulation. A few faces had the
strained look that indicates the conscientious listener; but most of
these young musicians were under the influence of a stimulant more
potent than wine, which manifested itself in a nervous garrulity and a
nervous mirth.

They hummed like bees before a hive. Maurice Guest, who had come out
among the first, lingered to watch a scene that was new to him, of
which he was as yet an onlooker only. Here and there came a member of
the orchestra; with violin-case or black-swathed wind-instrument in
hand, he deftly threaded his way through the throng, bestowing, as he
went, a hasty nod of greeting upon a colleague, a sweep of the hat on
an obsequious pupil. The crowd began to disperse and to overflow in
the surrounding streets. Some of the stragglers loitered to swell the
group that was forming round the back entrance to the building; here
the lank-haired Belgian violinist would appear, the wonders of whose
technique had sent thrills of enthusiasm through his hearers, and
whose close proximity would presently affect them in precisely the
same way. Others again made off, not for the town, with its
prosaic suggestion of work and confinement, but for the freedom of the
woods that lay beyond.

Maurice Guest followed them.