There was no printed program. The familiar Kreisler sound caressed my ears until suddenly he had a memory lapse. I was sure that, if the pianist stopped insisting on playing the music in front of him, Kreisler’s improvisations would make it into a better piece, but as it was they were muddling along in search of one another. I did not see the audience, but, judging from the applause following the piece, it was an extremely small one. The second piece he played incredibly beautifully, and there was no third. “Harriet is waiting”, he murmured, packing his violin./ “Won’t you play some more?” I asked. / “No, no, I must go.”/ I did not listen to Grace, and I was hardly ready to make my own appearance as she walked angrily in the room. “It’s all over. On-stage there, a polar bear can freeze to death.” / It’s a bloody short program; now it’s all up to us,” said my pianist through his bandages. Some other artist had taken my dear Ivor Newton away on tour and it was the first time that I had to play in England without him. The substituting gentleman had talked about nothing since his arrival at the concert but the unattractive infection he had caught at the barber’s. / With a feeling of considerable responsibility for the success of a concert by so many artists, with so little music, and for so much money, I was determined to give all I had. I bowed and placed my chair calculated to screen the bandaged face of my pianist. Then something incredible happened, something I still can’t explain. The very first note of the muted, delicate piece I played came with a shrill whistle no cello can normally produce. The rest of the piece, despite my supreme efforts, could not erase the beginning. I hoped to make it up with the next bravura display. It went well, and, though the reaction of the audience justified Grace’s remark, I announced the next piece to be played. Finished with this and simply not in the mood to continue, I walked off the stage. << less