“I know that,” she said. “It’s almost the only warmth I get now—your hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.”
“As good as a baked potato,” he said.
She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery.
“So many calories per week—isn’t that how we manage it?” he asked. “On credit?”
She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forgo his irony, which hurt her. They sat silent for some time. The sheep broke their cluster, and began to straggle back to the upper side of the pen.
“Tong-tong, tong,” went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder.
Byrne was thinking of the previous week. He had gone to Helena’s home to read German with her as usual. She wanted to understand Wagner in his own language.
In each of the arm-chairs, reposing across the arms, was a violin-case. He had sat down on the edge of one seat in front of the sacred fiddle. Helena had come quickly and removed the violin.
“I shan’t knock it—it is all right,” he had said, protesting.
This was Siegmund’s violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and Byrne was always ready to yield its precedence.