She smiled.
“Perhaps.”
“That concert paralyzed me. Too much Beethoven. I wanted Wagner. Beethoven insists on exalting you, but Wagner lets you revel and feel naughty. Winnie, d’you hear the wind?”
“Could I help it?” she asked.
“Does it suggest something to you?”
He looked at her, and made his expression mischievous, or meant to make it. She looked up at him, too.
“Yes, many things,” she said—“many, many things.”
“To me it suggests kites.”
“Kites?”
“Yes. I’m going to fly one now in the Park. The stars are out. Put on your hat and come with me.”