She disengaged herself, found a candle on the table, and lit it. She went up to him, anxious; took both his hands.
"Are you ill?"
"Yes," he stammered. "I don't feel well. This is one of my bad days."
This was not the first time she heard him complain of vague physical suffering, of heavy and wandering pains, of painful twitchings and tinglings, of vertigos and nightmares. She believed these sufferings imaginary; she saw in them the effects of habitual melancholy, the excesses of thought, and she knew no better remedy for them than kisses, laughter, and joyousness.
"Where are you suffering?"
"I could not say."
"Oh, I know what it is. The music excites you too much. We must have no more for a week."
"No, we will have no more."
"No more."
She went to the piano, shut the cover over the keys, locked it, and hid the little key.