I was tempted at first to believe that, in the concert room, when one of
his favorite pieces was being played, and his hand rose and fell in
exact accord with the conductor's baton, or when, with his head in the
air and his mouth half open, he thumped his knee at the beginning of
each bar, he was absorbed in the music to the exclusion of all his
worries, perplexities, and suffering.
But, after he had once or twice turned to me in a flash as the last note
of a symphony lingered before the outburst of applause and asked, "Did
you remember to tell Dunningham to have dinner served a quarter of an
hour later this evening?" or "Did Thwaites say anything to you about
when he expected those cables from New York?"--I learned that even at
such times J. P. never lost the thread of his existence, never freed
himself from the slavery of his affairs.
Twice during the ten days immediately preceding our long promised cruise
in the Mediterranean we made short trips on the yacht. We went to bed
some nights with all our plans apparently settled for a week ahead. At
eight o'clock the next morning Dunningham would bring J. P. down to
breakfast and then announce that everybody was to be on board the yacht
by midday, as J. P. had slept badly and felt the need of sea air and the
complete quiet which could be had only on board the Liberty.
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