There was no question about it any more: the whole audience knew that they were listening to a master.

In the row immediately behind Michael's party were sitting Sylvia and her mother, who had not quite been torn away from her novels, since she had sought "The Love of Hermione Hogarth" underneath her cloak, and read it furtively in pauses.

They had come in after Michael, and until the interval between the classical and the modern section of the concert he was unaware of their presence; then idly turning round to look at the crowded hall, he found himself face to face with the girl.
"I had no idea you were there," he said.

"Hermann will do, won't he?
I think--" And then suddenly the words of commonplace failed him, and he looked at her in silence.
"I knew you were back," she said.

"Hermann told me about--everything." Michael glanced sideways, indicating his mother, who sat next him, and was talking to Barbara.
"I wondered whether perhaps you would come and see my mother and me," he said.