Jove, he didn’t take to it kindly, I can tell you. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. They had not to tarry long. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. “No! I want to do without that. ‘What’s to do?’ ‘Valade is here.
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