" These broken phrases made him shiver,
especially as Yetta's expression, at first enigmatic, was now openly
sardonic. What did she mean? Was she only tormenting him? Was this to be
his test, his trial? His head was almost splitting, for the heat was
great and the air bad. Again he wished himself home.
They reached the platform. "Jump up, Arthur, and help me," she
commanded. He did so. But his discomfiture only grew apace with the
increased heat--the dingy ceiling crushed him--and the rows in front,
the entire floor seemed transformed to eyes, malicious eyes. She told
him to sit down at the piano and play the Marseillaise. Then standing
before the table she drew from her bosom a scarlet flag, and accompanied
by the enthusiastic shoutings she led the singing. Arthur at the
keyboard felt exalted. Forgotten the pains of a moment before. He
hammered the keys vigorously, extorting from the battered instrument a
series of curious croakings. Some of the keys did not "speak," some gave
forth a brazen clangour from the rusty wires. No one cared.
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