“Did you? What made you give it up?”
Katharine felt a strange pain in her heart, as they began to talk of the subject. The reality was suddenly coming back out of dreamland.
“I lost my taste for it,” answered Griggs, indifferently.
“About the same time as when you began to hate music, wasn’t it?” asked Crowdie, gravely.
“Yes, I daresay.”
The elder man spoke quietly enough, and there was not a shade of interest in his voice as he answered the question. But Katharine, who was watching him unconsciously, saw a momentary change pass over his face. He glanced at Crowdie with an expression that was almost savage. The dark, weary eyes gleamed fiercely for an instant, the great veins swelled at the lean temples, the lips parted and just showed the big, sharp teeth. Then it was all over again and the kindly look came back. Crowdie was not smiling, and the tone in which he had asked the question showed plainly enough that it was not meant as a jest. Indeed, the painter himself seemed unusually serious. But he had not been looking at Griggs, nor had Hester seen the sudden flash of what was very like half-suppressed anger. Katharine wondered more and more, and the little incident diverted her thoughts again from the suggestion which had given her pain.
“Lots of men drink water altogether, nowadays,” observed Crowdie. “It’s a mistake, of course, but it’s much more agreeable.”
“A mistake!” exclaimed Katharine, very much astonished.
“Oh, yes—it’s an awful mistake,” echoed Griggs, in the most natural way possible.
“I’m not so sure,” said Hester Crowdie, in a tone of voice which showed plainly that the idea was not new to her.