From this estranging mood he was roused by the innocent laughter of the Beaver. He was aware of certain thin and melancholy sounds that floated up from some room below. They struggled with the noises of the street, overcame, and rose strident and triumphant to invade the feast. They seemed to him in perfect keeping with the misery and insanity of the hour.
It was Mr. Partridge playing on his flute.
Miss Roots looked at Lucia. "That's you, Lucy. You've been talking to him about that flute. I suppose you told him you would love to hear him play it?"
"No, Sophie, I didn't tell him that." But Lucy looked a little guilty. The flute rose as if in passionate protest against her denial. It seemed to say "You did! You know you did!"
"I only said it was a pity he'd given it up, and I meant it. But oh!" and Lucy put her hands up to her ears, "I don't mean it any more."
"That comes," said Rickman, "of taking things on trust."
She smiled and shook her head. It was her first approach to a sign of reassurance.
"That's the sort of thing she's always doing. It doesn't matter for you, Lucy. You won't have to stay on and hear him."
"I don't know. I think I shall stay on. You see, Mr. Rickman, I can't part with this pretty room."
"Do you like it?"