He could not tell, but he thanked
Heaven that at least for this hour which was hers the little thing was
happy. He, for his part, by unprecedented acts of subterfuge and
hypocrisy, endeavoured to conceal his agony.
Miss Roots alone divined it. Beyond looking festive in a black silk
gown and a kind of white satin waistcoat, that clever lady took a
strained and awkward part in the rejoicing. He was inclined to think
that the waistcoat committed her to severity, until he became aware
that she was watching him with a furtive sympathy in the clever eyes
that saw through his pitiful play. How was it that Lucia, she who once
understood him, could not divine him too?
From this estranging mood he was roused by the innocent laughter of
the Beaver. He was aware of certain thin and melancholy sounds that
floated up from some room below. They struggled with the noises of the
street, overcame, and rose strident and triumphant to invade the
feast. They seemed to him in perfect keeping with the misery and
insanity of the hour.
It was Mr. Partridge playing on his flute.
Miss Roots looked at Lucia. "That's you, Lucy. You've been talking to
him about that flute. I suppose you told him you would love to hear
him play it?"
"No, Sophie, I didn't tell him that." But Lucy looked a little guilty.
The flute rose as if in passionate protest against her denial. It
seemed to say "You did! You know you did!"
"I only said it was a pity he'd given it up, and I meant it.
Pages:
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633