"Fanshaw, whatever happens, remember that my music is terribly important to me."
"But life is more important to us than anything."
Nan put her hand out to him suddenly across the table. He pressed it gently with long, white fingers. He felt his carefully balanced restraint tottering. When he was very small once he had tried to balance himself on the fence of the back yard above a rosebush in flower, and somehow the drone of the bees and the fragrance of the dull carmine flowers had made him dizzy, and he had lost his balance and tottered and swung his arms wildly. Then he had fallen and lain crying on the path among the fallen petals, his face all scratched and bloody from the thorns. He patted her hand gently. Neither of them spoke.
"Dear Nan," he began when the silence had got to swirling fearfully about his head.
"There are the Turnstables," said Nan sharply. "They are coming in here."
They got to their feet. Mrs. Turnstable, in a long motor coat, came up to them, followed by her blonde son and daughter.
"Why, Nancibel, how delightful to run upon you here. And how do you do, Mr. Macdougan? Why, this is luck ... Isn't it delicious here today. Our first real spring day."
"Hello, Cousin Nancibel."
Chairs scraped. Another table was pushed up. Under cover of the clinking of more teacups being brought and Mrs. Turnstable's musical voice talking about what a dreadful spring it had been, Fanshaw sat silent, feeling his frenzy of excitement ebb deliciously. This was saner. Control. Control.
"O, Mr. Macdougan, have you seen Prunella? Such a beautiful play; I'm sure you'd like it. I've been twice, and I am taking the children tomorrow. So romantic and dainty ..."