“No, on the top floor, but it connects with her room.”
We stood still and listened, and as the song rose to its brilliant climax, Roger looked at me smiling, and nodded approvingly. In his heart he thinks he is something of a musician, has season seats at the opera and goes dutifully to the Symphony. I don’t think he is any more musical than I am. I don’t think literary people ever are. They like it with their imaginations, feel its sensuous appeal, but as to experiencing those esoteric raptures that the initiated know—it’s a joy denied.
The song came to an end.
“Not a bad voice,” said Roger. “Who is she?”
“A lady who is studying to be a professional.” And then I added spitefully: “Do you think she ought to give up her singing to be sheltered by somebody’s fireside?”
Roger had turned to get his coat. He stopped and looked at me over his shoulder, smiling—he really has a delightful smile.
“I except ladies with voices.”
“Because they add to the pleasure of gentlemen with musical tastes?”
He picked up his coat.
“Evie, one of the things that strengthens me in my belief is that when you get on that subject you become absolutely acid.”