Charles, who had been flourishing under
the kindness of her friendship, was puzzled by her capriciousness, but
he did not question her. He was learning to accept mysteries calmly
and to work at them in his head. She shuffled her feet and he
pretended not to hear: she crackled her programme and he smiled down
at her. This was maddening, yet it was a tribute to her power. She
could do what she liked and Charles would love her; he was a great
possession; she did not know what she would do without him.
As they ate their rich cakes in a famous teashop, Charles talked
incessantly about the music, and when at last he paused, she said
indifferently, 'I didn't hear a note.'
Mildly he advised her not to wear such tight shoes.
'Tight!' She looked down at them. 'I had them made for me!'
'You seemed to be uncomfortable,' he said.
'I was thinking, thinking, thinking.'
'What about?'
'Things you wouldn't understand, Charles. You're too good.'
'I dare say,' he murmured.
'You've never wanted to murder anyone.'
'Yes, I have.'
'Who?'
'That Sales fellow.'
Her eyelids quivered, but she said boldly, 'Because of me?'
'No, of course not. Making noises at concerts. Shooting birds. I've
told you so before.'
'He's been to Canada.'
'I know.'
'But he has come back.'
'Well, I suppose he had to come back some day.'
'And I hate Aunt Rose.'
'What a pity,' Charles said, taking another cake.
'Why a pity?'
'Beautiful woman.
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