“It is a very good band.”
“It’s profane,” Charles said wearily. “Music—they call it music!” He was off at a great pace and she did not try to hold him in. She lay back in the big chair and seemed to study the toes on which Charles Batty had trampled. His voice rolled on like the sound of water, companionable and unanswerable. Suddenly his tone changed. “Henrietta is very unkind to me.”
“Is there any reason why she shouldn’t be?”
“I do everything I can think of. I’ve told her all about myself.”
“She would rather hear about herself.”
“I’ve done that, too. Perhaps I haven’t done it enough. I’ve given her chocolates and flowers. What else ought I to do?”
Her voice, very calm and clear after his spluttering, said, “Not too much.”
“Oh!” This was a new idea. “Oh! I never thought of that. Why—”
She interrupted his usual cry. “Women are naturally cruel.”
“Are they? I didn’t know that either.” He swallowed the information visibly. She could almost see the process of digestion. “Oh!” he said again.