He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. He wore a silk hat a little tilted, and a morning coat buttoned round a tight, contained figure; and a white slip gave a finish to his costume and endorsed the quiet distinction of his tie. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. So I introduced him to my father-in-law like a shot. The program was to include a Bach cantata, her favorite piece from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, and for the first time ever, a student composition, a Concerto, by a precociously talented fellow student named Martin Chen. Maggot, kissing her hand to him.
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