"What about the concerto?" he asked her one day. "Aren't you going to do anything with it?"
"Do anything with it?" she repeated vaguely.
"Yes, of course. Get it published—push it! You didn't write it just for fun, I suppose?"
A faintly mocking smile upturned the corners of her mouth.
"I think Roger considers I wrote it expressly to annoy him," she submitted.
"Rot!" he replied succinctly. "Just because he's not a trained musician you appear to imagine he's devoid of ordinary appreciation."
"He is," she returned. "He hates my music. Yes, he does"—as Sandy seemed about to protest. "He hates it!"
"Look here, Nan"—he became suddenly serious—"you're not playing fair with Trenby. He's quite a good sort, but because he isn't a scatter-brained artist like yourself, you're giving him a rotten time."
From the days when they had first known each other Sandy had taken it upon himself at appropriate seasons to lecture Nan upon the error of her ways, and it never occurred to her, even now, to resent it. Instead, she answered him with unwonted meekness.
"I can't help it. Roger and I never see things in the same light, and—and oh, Sandy, you might try to understand!" she ended appealingly.