He smiled, in charming gratitude to her for seeing it.
That smile raised the devil in her. Why, after all, should she help him out?
"And are you susceptible to music—in the same unpleasant way?"
"Me? Oh, no—no. I like it; it gives me the very greatest pleasure." He stared at her in bewilderment and distress.
"Then why," said Mrs. Norman sweetly, "if it gives you pleasure, should you cut yourself off from it?"
"My dear Mrs. Norman, we have to cut ourselves off from a great many things—that give us pleasure. It can't be helped."
She meditated. "Would it be any good," she said, "if I were to call on Mrs. Wilkinson?"
Wilkinson looked grave. "It is most kind of you, but—just at present—I think it might be wiser not. She really, you know, isn't very fit."
Mrs. Norman's silence neither accepted nor rejected the preposterous pretext. Wilkinson went on, helping himself out as best he could:
"I can't talk about it; but I thought I ought to let you know. We've just got to give everything up."