“Mad! Music—divine! And people get up and squeak. How they dare! A violation of the temple!”
“Oh, dear me!” Mrs. Batty groaned.
“You play the piano yourself,” Henrietta said.
“Because I can. I’d show you if you cared about it.”
“I think I would rather go and see Mr. Batty’s flowers.”
“Yes, dear, do. Charles, take her to your father.” Mrs. Batty was very hot; it would be a relief to her to heave and sigh alone.
Charles rose and advanced, stooping a little, carrying his arms as though they did not belong to him and, in the hall, beside one of the gleaming statues, he paused.
“I’ve offended you,” he said miserably. “I make mistakes—somehow. Nobody explains. I shall do it again.”
“You were rather rude,” Henrietta said. “Why should you assume that I squeak?”
“Sure to,” Charles said hopelessly, “or gurgle. Look here, I’ll teach you myself, if you like.”