Kevin Chen, Martin’s father, was equally stately, his dark brown eyes bright with the fire of extreme intelligence. ‘Now let’s have it. Playing with one hand he turned on his stool to glance at her. “Boys!” said Capes. “Maybe we could swing a scholarship to Boston College for you, you know, with your violin and all. They struck her as cold and indifferent. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. After a while, he raised his eyes; and, if their glance could have been witnessed at the moment, it could not have been easily forgotten.
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