Attempts to sift the human mind throw very little light upon it, and the dust gets in the eyes of the story. Perhaps that is why it cannot give Miss Dickenson's reason for not following up her last remark with:—"And will go on so, I suppose, to the end of time!" as she had half-intended to do, philosophically. Possibly she thought it would complicate the topic she was hankering after. It would be better to keep that provisionally clear of subjects made to the hand of writers of plays. She would not go beyond hypnotic suggestion at present. She approached it with the air of one who dismisses a triviality.
"It seems Mr. Adrian Torrens is a musician as well as a poet."
"Had they been playing the piano?"
"Really, Mr. Pellew, how absurd you are! Where does 'they' come in?"
"Oh—well—a—of course—I thought you were referring to...."
"Whom did you suppose I was referring to?" Aggressive equanimity here that can wait weeks, if necessary.
"Torrens and my cousin Gwen! Be hanged if I can see why I shouldn't refer to them!"
"Do so by all means. I wasn't, myself; but it doesn't matter. It was Nurse Bailey told Lutwyche, whom I borrow from Gwen sometimes, that Mr. Torrens was a great musician."
"How does Nurse Bailey know?"
"He was playing to her quite beautiful in the drawing-room just before her young ladyship came in. And then Mrs. Bailey went upstairs to write a letter because there was plenty of time before the post."