“Thank you; I have enjoyed it intensely,” he said, when she had finished. “ ‘Thank you’ is poor—it cannot express my meaning. You play magnificently.”
“I am glad you think so,” she replied. “When you came I was wishing I could do nothing. You understand? To acquiesce is happiness if one knows no better.”
“But if one does know? Believe me, acquiescence is misery. The wings of song carried you somewhere far away?”
“How do you know?” she asked suddenly. “To fight, to be, and to do, are the best.”
“Like our childish friend the verb; you have left out to suffer,” he suggested softly.
She laughed, and he felt baffled.
“Let us go and have tea.”
“On the principle of feed a man when he bores you,” Mr. Wainbridge said with irritation.
“No, not at all. I love my tea, and it will be cold. Tell me first how you like my music-room? It is my own particular abode; you were admitted by mistake.”
“May I be admitted again?”