“You mean to tell me” he said, “that you have a lover? While I have been keeping you! Yes—keeping you!” This view of life he hurled at her as if it were an offensive missile. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. With delicate touch he rescued all that was possible of them, and made a careful little parcel. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. They stood back together and stared at it. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. She wanted to go to Cornell University to study Anthropology, that was her 183 dream.
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