He talked about her music, and very agreeably remembered all the various times he had heard her play, and gave her ardent praise.
“Oh, but you’re not a critic,” she said.
“No,” he said, looking at her with a smile. “I’m certainly not a critic—of you.”
It was agreeable of him, she thought, not to be serious, like Al, but to be frankly interested, just in her. She offered him a cigarette from a box on the table and lighted one herself.
“Al’s late,” she observed. “I suppose he’s gone to a meeting. He can’t keep away from them.... Are you a Socialist, Mr. Malloy?”
“I don’t really know what a Socialist is. I may be one without knowing it. But I’m afraid I’m frivolous.”
“You’re in business, though. That justifies you. I’ve heard often enough from Father what a prodigious struggle that is!”
“I’ve dabbled in music, too.”
“What a horrible thing to say!”
“I’m not a bit ashamed of it. If you asked me, I’d sing for you.”