"There's an east wind blowing, evil for man and beast."
"You're neither. Come on."
They crossed the park, skirting the Serpentine, a dull, leaden-coloured lake wrinkled by the keen wind. On some of the benches sweethearts were sitting, serenely unmindful of the blast.
"They feel warm enough," said Betty, laughing. "Well, I'm in a glow, too."
When they returned to Cadogan Place, Archibald had just arrived from Upper Tooting. He said that he had found a superb tenor, whom he had engaged.
"He sang 'Nazareth'—quite admirably."
Betty, teapot in hand, looked up, interested at once.
"Oh, Archie, you have not sung 'Nazareth' for months. Do sing it after tea!"
"Do!" Mark added. "I haven't heard you sing for a year."
Finally, after a little pressing, Archibald seated himself at the piano, a beautiful Steinway. As he touched the keys, Betty's face assumed the expression of delighted receptivity so familiar to Mark. She glanced at the singer between half-closed eyes, lying back in her chair in an attitude of physical and mental ease. One hand drooped at her side, and as Archibald sang the fingers of this hand contracted and relaxed, keeping time to the rhythm of the song. Mark felt that her pulses were throbbing, quivering with delight and satisfaction. The music touched him also, stirring to determination his desire to help and protect the woman he loved. But when his thoughts turned, as they did immediately, to Archibald, they became of another texture and complexion. He had not prayed to God since that night on Ben Caryll. Now, beneath the spell of the music, he repeated to himself: "Oh God, take this hate from me; take this hate from me!"