‘To George?’ he faltered.
‘He provided the Cumfrit. All I did was the Catherine bit.’
‘Then—you’re married?’
‘Isn’t everybody?’
‘Good God, no,’ he cried. ‘It’s a disgusting thing to be. It’s hateful. It’s ridiculous. Tying oneself up to somebody for good and all. Everybody! I should think not. I’m not.’
‘Oh, but you’re too young,’ she said, amused.
‘Too young? And what about you?’
She looked at him quickly, a doubt on her face; but the doubt changed to real surprise when she saw how completely he had meant it. She had a three-cornered face, like a pansy, like a kitten, he thought. He wanted to stroke her. He was sure she was exquisitely smooth and soft. And now there was George.
‘Does he—does your husband not like music?’ he asked, saying the first thing that came into his head, not really wanting in the least to know what that damned George liked or didn’t like.
She hesitated. ‘I—don’t know,’ she said. ‘He—usedn’t to.’