“Now I am ‘infinitely good,’ which is really more than human if you think it out,” he laughed. “See how you run to extremes with nerves and things. No, you are not to care at all, Winnie. You have a more or less good voice. You know more music than is good for you, and sooner or later, since you insist on it, you will get what you want. Where is the hurry?”
“You don’t or won’t understand,” said Winifred. “I know what I want, and must get some work without delay.”
“Well, then, since it upsets you, you shall. I am not much of an authority about professional matters myself, but I know a lady who understands these things, and I’ll speak to her.”
“Who is this lady?” asked Winifred.
“Mrs. Ronald Tower.”
“Young—nice-looking?” asked Winifred, looking down at the crochet work in her lap. She was so taken up with the purely feminine aspect of affairs that she gave slight heed to a remarkable coincidence.
“Er—so-so,” said Carshaw with a smile borne of memories, which Winifred’s downcast eyes just noticed under their raised lids.
“What is she like?” she went on.
“Let me see! How shall I describe her? Well, you know Gainsborough’s picture of the Duchess of Devonshire? She’s like that, full-busted, with preposterous hats, dashing—rather a beauty!”
“Indeed!” said Winifred coldly. “She must be awfully attractive. A very old friend?”