“We make cocoa when we come in,” said Rose, beaming at him.
Here at least was certain comfort and something to look forward to.
“Come in from where?” he asked.
“Oh, we just go out and wander about—it’s so delicious—you will—won’t you? It’s too hot to stay indoors, isn’t it?”
“Much too hot.”
“Before you go out, Rosie,” said her mother, “just play Mr. Maitland that dear little Berceuse—Tum-ti tum-ti tum—you know.”
“Oh, no, mother.”
“Oh, no,” said Marcus.
“Don’t you like music?” she asked, surprised, men so often did.
“I have never—”