Ah. Yes. Byerly closes his eyes as she sings, in sheer unselfconscious aesthetic enjoyment of a rare moment of beauty. And it is beautiful. By is friends with actors, opera directors, dance-hall girls - all sorts of low and despicable types - and so he knows technical perfection, and he knows talent, especially when it comes to music. Technically perfect this isn't: her voice is raw, imperfect. But it is also beautiful, earnest and lovely.

When she finishes, he opens his eyes and smiles honestly. He's a nasty, cruel sort of person most of the time, someone who'll mock anyone for just about anything, but that's not the sort of thing he'd ever mock her for.

"Thank you," he says. "Marvelous stuff. Is there more?"