She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ‘Pen and paper, do you have them?’ ‘Danged if I have,’ came the truculent response. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth.
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