"I would work for my wife," said the Tenor.
"Are you engaged?" the Boy asked. There seemed no limit to his capacity for asking.
The Tenor shook his head, and shook the ashes out of his pipe at the same time.
"Are you in love?" the Boy persisted.
The Tenor made no reply to this impertinence, but a glow spread over his face, forehead and chin and throat.
The Boy, whom nothing escaped, leant back satisfied. "I know what it is," he said, "She's married, and you don't like to ask her to run away with you. I expect she would, you know, if you did."
The Tenor threw himself back in his chair and laughed.
His mirth seemed to jar on the Boy, who got up and began to pace about the room, frowning and dissatisfied.
"You look pale," the Tenor said. "Have you been ill since; I saw you?"
"No—yes," the Boy answered. "I had a bad cold. I was very sorry for myself."