That evening, before she left, she would set his breakfast, cut
his lunch ready for the morrow. By Saturday week they would be settled
down to their regular life together. She would not think about his
music; pushed it away at the back of her mind--over and done
with--would not even allow herself the disloyalty of being glad. And
yet was glad, deeply glad, relieved, despite her pride in it, in him:
as though it were something unknown, alien, dangerous, like things
forbidden.
Two men were waiting at the door of the narrow slip of a house: the
tall, thin one with his overcoat still buttoned up to his chin, and
another fat and shining, with a top-hat, black frock-coat, and white
spats.
"About that concert----" said the first man.
"We were thinking that if we could persuade you to play----" put in the
other.
"There was no one there," interrupted Ben roughly. His shoulders were
bent, his head dropped forward on his chest, poking sideways, his eyes
sullen as a child's.
"I was there," put in the first man, "and I must say, impressed----"
"Very deeply impressed," added the other; but once again Ben brushed
him aside.
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