“The opening to the last act of Parsifal.”
“I dare say. But I am no musician.”
“Nor I. But I suppose one need not be a painter to be reminded of a picture. However, I did not come after you to talk about Parsifal.” She stood in the narrow pathway looking down upon him, and spoke with extreme directness. “I saw you from the window, and, as I wished to say something, I followed—”
He bowed. She looked beyond him.
“I have known you two days, but of course have heard of you enough, and though you may not believe it, no one wanted you home from India more than I. I fancied from what I gathered that you might understand.”
He steeled himself against the flattering softness of her voice.
“Because I was Hugh Forbes’ friend?”
“Yes,” she returned quickly—“for that reason. You might have saved him suffering. For I am afraid he has suffered.”
“You are afraid. Do you doubt?”
“Not now.”