“Why on earth didn’t you accompany yourself?” he asked in a low voice. “You knew what a muddler that girl was, I suppose.”
“Yes. She plays like a distracted black beetle—horrid creature!”
“Then—why?”
“I look ridiculous sitting at the piano.”
“Ridiculous—you—”
“Well, I hold them far more when I stand up. They can’t get away from me then.”
“And you’d rather have your singing ruined than part for a moment with a scrap of your physical influence, of the influence that comes from your beauty, not your talent—your face, not your soul. Viola, you’re just the same.”
“Lady Holme,” she said.
“P’sh! Why?”
“My little husband’s fussy.”