"Prove a point?" complete silence befell the concert hall. The loudness reduced the single man sat at the piano. Judging eyes of the audience watched, the most critical, Cartney. The reason for the misunderstanding was one incomprehensible by the pianist. Why would a guitarist play the piano, it was as if asking a child to speak a foreign language. In any case, or so what thought Cartney, '- he said he'd prove a point. I don't accept modern music; even if he's played the piano before, there's no way someone like him could please my trained ears. The world of classical music will not be shunned by worthless and shallow pop-idols.'
"Éclair, is everything ready?"
"No need to worry. I've found all the information needed; you can play the instrument as well as the guitar. Good job on having a link with a demon."
"Oh please," he chuckled, "-you're not a demon, thou art mine helper."
"Supposed the old dialect is a force of habit?"