And then Margot spoke.
“Jean,” she said very simply, “you’ve been for six months at the Toriallis’ now; do you like it there?”
It was an unfortunate choice of subjects—the last thing that Jean wished to discuss with Margot or with anyone else was the Toriallis; one of them he wished to forget, the other was too sacred for him to dare to remember. He dropped his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes, I like it there well enough,” he said. “It has drawbacks—one cannot have the flower without the root—music...” He stopped, the words choked him. To speak of music was to hear the sound of Gabrielle’s voice.
“Music?” echoed Margot, and really a candid judge might have thought Margot’s voice as satisfactory as Madame Torialli’s. However, a young lover is not a candid judge; Margot’s little echo irritated Jean.
“What do you mean, Margot?” he asked impatiently, although he did not really want to know what Margot meant.
“I somehow thought,” she answered, “that you hadn’t had much lately—not real music, I mean. Everything at the Boulevard Malesherbes seems so—so mixed up with other things. They are of the great world, aren’t they—the Toriallis—she goes out so much—and they entertain a great deal. I wondered if you ever got enough time and freedom for your real work?”
“It’s very good of you,” said Jean, “to bother about me....”
“Oh, Jean!” said Margot.
Jean bit his lips—he knew he mustn’t talk like this to Margot—he made a great effort, an effort so great that it showed.