"Oh, don't be so indignant, please. I am an artist—honestly. But some of these men I've met over here—well, they fascinate me. Such boundless energy and drive ought to go into a symphony. Plenty of drums and crashing brass. Good-bye, Mrs. Lanier," he added. "This has been a lucky day for me."
"Thank you. Don't forget about Joe. And meanwhile—till next Tuesday."
As she settled back in her car she thought,
"All right, Ethel, very good."
Twice a week, that autumn, she went to Dwight for lessons. But until some time had passed, she did not mention it to Joe.
"When you meet him," she said to Dwight, "I'd rather you wouldn't speak of my lessons. I want my singing to be a surprise. And besides, I'd so much rather that any old friends of my husband's come to him through his partner. It seems so much more natural."
"I see," said Dwight. "But he doesn't," she thought, "and I'll have to explain."
"Later, of course, I'll tell him," she said, "But just now, in the state he's in, if you or any one else of his friends who knew him as he used to be should come and say, 'Sent by your wife, with her compliments and fervent hopes of your speedy resurrection '—oh, no, it wouldn't do at all." Dwight was watching her curiously.
"How many of us are there!" he asked. She looked at him in a questioning way.
"Of us," he explained, "Joe's old friends, who are to dig him up, you know."