Some of these pleased him mightily; one he altogether demurred to.
"It's just a crib, Mike," he said.

"The critics would say I had forgotten it, and put in instead what I could remember of a variation out of the Handel theme.

That next one's, oh, great fun.

But I wish you would remember that we all haven't got great orang-outang paws like you." Aunt Barbara stopped in the middle of her sentence; she knew Michael's old sensitiveness about these physical disabilities, and she had a moment's cold horror at the thought of Falbe having said so miserably tactless a thing to him.

But the horror was of infinitesimal duration, for she heard Michael's laugh as they leaned over the top of the piano together.
"I wish you had, Hermann," he said.