The quality of his playing was exceedingly erratic, even though at times it attained to a kind of subtlety, tenderness, awareness, and charm which brought him some attention.

As a rule, however, it reflected the chaotic state of his own brain.

He would play violently, feverishly, with a wild passionateness of gesture which robbed him of all ability to control his own technic.
"Oh, Harold!" Rita used to exclaim at first, ecstatically.

Later she was not so sure.
Life and character must really get somewhere to be admirable, and Harold, really and truly, did not seem to be getting anywhere.

He taught, stormed, dreamed, wept; but he ate his three meals a day, Rita noticed, and he took an excited interest at times in other women.