Another time, keeping a promise to play a solo at a students' "Kitchen Concert" at the Royal Infirmary, this strange creature was singing when I entered the large kitchen. Recognizing the words, but not the music, as Wolfram's address to the Star of Eve, I ventured to ask the name of the composer. Closing his eyes, as he invariably did when speaking, he slowly droned in deepest bass: "The vords are Vagner's; the music is mine. I thought them vorthy bettaw wendewing!" Which explanation, equalled for unaffected modesty, completely staggered me.