But Lady Cardington, the white-haired
woman spoke to him softly, and he leaned over to her and replied. The
sleek man, whose name was Mr. Bry, began to talk about Tschaikowsky to
Mrs. Henry Wolfstein, the woman with the red fan. He uttered his remarks
authoritatively in a slow and languid voice, looking at the pointed toes
of his shoes. Conversation became general.
Robin Pierce, the tall young man, stood alone for a few minutes. Two or
three times he glanced towards Lady Holme, who had sat down on a sofa,
and was opening and shutting a small silver box which she had picked up
from a table near her. Then he walked quietly up the room and sat down
beside her.
"Why on earth didn't you accompany yourself?" he asked in a low voice.
"You knew what a muddler that girl was, I suppose."
"Yes. She plays like a distracted black beetle--horrid creature!"
"Then--why?"
"I look ridiculous sitting at the piano."
"Ridiculous--you--"
"Well, I hold them far more when I stand up. They can't get away from me
then."
"And you'd rather have your singing ruined than part for a moment with a
scrap of your physical influence, of the influence that comes from your
beauty, not your talent--your face, not your soul. Viola, you're just the
same."
"Lady Holme," she said.
"P'sh! Why?"
"My little husband's fussy."
"And much you care if he is."
"Oh, yes, I do. He sprawls when he fusses and knocks things over, and
then, when I've soothed him, he always goes and does Sandow exercises and
gets bigger.
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