Lister had not his talents; when Cartwright was young he knew how to amuse a pretty girl.
The man at the piano signed to Barbara, who got up and began to sing.
The song was modern and the melody not marked.

Cartwright liked the Victorian ballads with tunes that haunted one and obvious sentiment, but because Barbara sang he gave the words and music his languid interest.
After all, the thing was clever.

There was, so to speak, not much on the surface, but one heard an elusive note of effort, as if one struggled after something one could not grasp.

On the whole, Cartwright did not approve that kind of sentiment; his objects were generally plain.

Then he thought the hint of strain was too well done for a young girl, and when Barbara stopped he turned to his wife.
"Are you satisfied about Barbara ?" he asked.
"Why should I not be satisfied ?" "I have felt she's not quite up to her proper form.