“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?—you make me.’”
There she went on, tinkling away at “If I built a world for you, dear.”
“I say, stop it, do!” he cried.
She tinkled to the end of the verse, and very slowly closed the piano.
“Come on—come and sit down,” he said.
“No, I don’t want to.—I’d rather have gone on playing.”
“Go on with your damned playing then, and I’ll go where there’s more interest.”
“You ought to like it.”
He did not answer, so she turned slowly round on the stool, opened the piano, and laid her fingers on the keys. At the sound of the chord he started up, saying: “Then I’m going.”