“Yes.”
“Truthfully, really, honestly glad?”
“Yes.”
“Well, so am I,” said she. She released his hand.
“Now go and play me something. I want something soothing after Venetia—play me Chopin’s Spianato—we used to be fond of that.”
Now the only thing that Jones had ever played in his life was the Star Spangled Banner and that with one finger—Chopin’s Spianato!
“No,” he said. “I’d rather talk.”
“Well, talk then—mercy! There’s the first gong.”
A faint and far away sound invaded the room, throbbed and ceased. She rose, picked up her gloves, which she had cast on a chair, and then peeped at herself in a mirror by the piano.
“You have never kissed me,” said she, speaking as it were half to herself and half to him, seeming to be more engaged in a momentary piercing criticism of the hat she was wearing than in thoughts of kisses. He came towards her like a schoolboy, then, as she held up her face he imprinted a chaste kiss upon her right cheek bone.