“Honestly, I get time enough,” he said. “And you? Flaubert is all right, isn’t he? Your voice has improved greatly.”
Margot rose to go—and Jean thought that he had succeeded in hiding his relief; still he felt a little ashamed of being relieved.
“One thing I do want you to remember, Margot,” he said, helping her on with her jacket. “Nobody’s voice will ever mean what yours does to me, and if I ever can—we are friends, aren’t we? Here are your gloves—and you’ll come again sometimes on Sunday evening, won’t you? Are you sure you can get home alone all right?”
Margot nodded—she was quite sure she could get home alone all right; the difficulty would be if she were not alone. The door closed after her.
Jean returned to the piano—but the joy was gone now—the mysterious Ariadne thread of Gabrielle’s smile had broken—instead he could see only the little cloud in Margot’s eyes—he could hear the break in her voice when she said, “Oh, Jean!” She used to say that so differently when he was ill and she was nursing him.
He flung over the music-stool and rushed downstairs—they were long stairs and he caught Margot up before she had reached the bottom. He seized her hands and turned her round so that he could see her face.
Margot was crying.
He made an exclamation of regret and self-reproach and dragged her upstairs again without a word. Margot expostulated faintly—but she followed.
“Now,” he said, drawing her into his one armchair and seating himself beside her. “What is it—I know I’ve been a beast—but it can’t be helped now—I won’t be any more. Tell me, Margot.”
“If I tell you you’ll be so angry, Jean,” whispered Margot.