I tried to make
it clear to you that--that this little woman wasn't that sort. But I
couldn't," finished Cyril, gloomily.
"But of course she isn't," declared Billy, with quick sympathy. "I--I
didn't know--WHAT--I was--talking about," she added with emphatic
distinctness. Then she smiled to think how little Cyril knew how very
true those words were. "Tell me about her," she begged again. "I
know she must be very lovely and brilliant, and of course a wonderful
musician. YOU couldn't choose any one else!"
To her surprise Cyril turned abruptly and began to play again. A nervous
little staccato scherzo fell from his fingers, but it dropped almost at
once into a quieter melody, and ended with something that sounded very
much like the last strain of "Home, Sweet Home." Then he wheeled about
on the piano stool.
"Billy, that's exactly where you're wrong--I DON'T want that kind of
wife. I don't want a brilliant one, and--now, Billy, this sounds like
horrible heresy, I know, but it's true--I don't care whether she can
play, or not; but I should prefer that she shouldn't play--much!"
"Why, Cyril Henshaw!--and you, with your music! As if you could be
contented with a woman like that!"
"Oh, I want her to like music, of course," modified Cyril; "but I don't
care to have her MAKE it. Billy, do you know? You'll laugh, of course,
but my picture of a wife is always one thing: a room with a table and
a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it with the light on her hair,
and a great, basket of sewing beside her.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235