darkness.
“You’re bullying me,” she said.
“Heavens, no.”
“Yes, you are. You won’t allow me to know my own mind.”
“I won’t allow you to try to deceive me. Be honest Laurie. You’re sorry for me, aren’t you?”
She was silent for a moment, then she said: “Max, don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult. But I cannot stand people being sorry for me—especially you.”
She did not ask why he specified herself. He added: “It’s very nice to hear, Max, from you.”
“Max, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go back for an hour or two, and then you bring me down to the dance for the last hour, and stay and talk to your friends with us. Then we shall both have our music, I shall see the village dance, and you’ll be able to talk to your Diana.”
“My Diana? Diana is very much her own. I’m tempted to fall in with such a good plan, but there’s no fire in the sitting room. It will be cold and cheerless and you will be far better off at the dance.”
“Please turn round. It’s all settled.”
“I see that you’re as stubborn as a mule,” he said, but his voice sounded pleased, and he turned the car and went back to the farm.
He was an expert at fire building. He got a great blaze with wood chips, and progressed from small logs to big ones—all very dry, so that the blaze was continuous. Laurie watched him, keeping her fur jacket round her shoulders. He was very much aware of her, standing there beside him, as he worked: the long, soft folds of her bright dress, the silver sandals peeping from underneath (such silly sandals—nothing but an insignificant sole and a few slender straps), the caressing softness of the fur that she held about her. And an expensive, heady perfume that was strange and new in the sitting room of the farmhouse.
When the room had warmed a little, and the fire was too hot to stay close to, Laurie slipped off her jacket and went to the piano. Max sat back in his armchair and watched her and listened. The firelight danced all over the flame and apricot of her dress, and over the bright brown hair, hanging softly about her bare shoulders. Max smoked his pipe, his teeth clenched on it, and wondered what would happen if he went to her and put his hands on those soft shoulders, and his cheek down on that soft brown hair. The temptation to do so was easily resisted; he had only to think of his lameness to realize that he would do no such thing. He wasted a few minutes in vain regret; imagining himself taking Laurie down to the dance in the old days; imagining the good time they would have together, the drive home together, the softness of her lips under his when he kissed her in the darkness.
She turned on the stool and looked at him.
“Did you like that one?” she asked him.
“Yes, very much,” he said, realizing that he had heard it in spite of his dreaming.
“It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it? A Chopin prelude. And this is, too—one of the studies.”
She turned back and went on playing. He rose and went to her side, looking down on her and her flying hands.
“Don’t,” she said, “it embarrasses me if you watch me.”
But he stayed and watched so that she dropped her hands into her lap.
“I don’t embarrass you, do I, Laurie?”
“Yes. It’s because I know I don’t really play very well.”
“But you do. You play beautifully. You have a lovely touch. What else do you do?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. In this house, I feel a most useless person. Everybody is always so busy. But I just put in a few hours a day with the Humphries...”
“On highly technical work,” put in Max.
“And play the piano and dance, and look nice, and play tennis. I don’t know a thing about keeping house, or cooking, or poultry or crops or trees or flowers, or anything country and useful.”
“Why should you? You’ve never had need to.”
“But imagine what will happen when I’m married, what a dunderhead I shall be.”
“Are you
“You’re bullying me,” she said.
“Heavens, no.”
“Yes, you are. You won’t allow me to know my own mind.”
“I won’t allow you to try to deceive me. Be honest Laurie. You’re sorry for me, aren’t you?”
She was silent for a moment, then she said: “Max, don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult. But I cannot stand people being sorry for me—especially you.”
She did not ask why he specified herself. He added: “It’s very nice to hear, Max, from you.”
“Max, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go back for an hour or two, and then you bring me down to the dance for the last hour, and stay and talk to your friends with us. Then we shall both have our music, I shall see the village dance, and you’ll be able to talk to your Diana.”
“My Diana? Diana is very much her own. I’m tempted to fall in with such a good plan, but there’s no fire in the sitting room. It will be cold and cheerless and you will be far better off at the dance.”
“Please turn round. It’s all settled.”
“I see that you’re as stubborn as a mule,” he said, but his voice sounded pleased, and he turned the car and went back to the farm.
He was an expert at fire building. He got a great blaze with wood chips, and progressed from small logs to big ones—all very dry, so that the blaze was continuous. Laurie watched him, keeping her fur jacket round her shoulders. He was very much aware of her, standing there beside him, as he worked: the long, soft folds of her bright dress, the silver sandals peeping from underneath (such silly sandals—nothing but an insignificant sole and a few slender straps), the caressing softness of the fur that she held about her. And an expensive, heady perfume that was strange and new in the sitting room of the farmhouse.
When the room had warmed a little, and the fire was too hot to stay close to, Laurie slipped off her jacket and went to the piano. Max sat back in his armchair and watched her and listened. The firelight danced all over the flame and apricot of her dress, and over the bright brown hair, hanging softly about her bare shoulders. Max smoked his pipe, his teeth clenched on it, and wondered what would happen if he went to her and put his hands on those soft shoulders, and his cheek down on that soft brown hair. The temptation to do so was easily resisted; he had only to think of his lameness to realize that he would do no such thing. He wasted a few minutes in vain regret; imagining himself taking Laurie down to the dance in the old days; imagining the good time they would have together, the drive home together, the softness of her lips under his when he kissed her in the darkness.
She turned on the stool and looked at him.
“Did you like that one?” she asked him.
“Yes, very much,” he said, realizing that he had heard it in spite of his dreaming.
“It’s a lovely thing, isn’t it? A Chopin prelude. And this is, too—one of the studies.”
She turned back and went on playing. He rose and went to her side, looking down on her and her flying hands.
“Don’t,” she said, “it embarrasses me if you watch me.”
But he stayed and watched so that she dropped her hands into her lap.
“I don’t embarrass you, do I, Laurie?”
“Yes. It’s because I know I don’t really play very well.”
“But you do. You play beautifully. You have a lovely touch. What else do you do?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. In this house, I feel a most useless person. Everybody is always so busy. But I just put in a few hours a day with the Humphries...”
“On highly technical work,” put in Max.
“And play the piano and dance, and look nice, and play tennis. I don’t know a thing about keeping house, or cooking, or poultry or crops or trees or flowers, or anything country and useful.”
“Why should you? You’ve never had need to.”
“But imagine what will happen when I’m married, what a dunderhead I shall be.”
“Are you
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