Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/266

258 “Not just now,” she said, trailing aimlessly to the piano. She sat down and began to play at random, from memory. Then she did that most irritating thing—played accompaniments to songs, with snatches of the air where the voice should have predominated.

“I say Lettie,. . .” he interrupted after a time.

“Yes,” she replied, continuing to play.

“It’s not very interesting. . . .”

“No?”—she continued to play.

“Nor very amusing. . . .”

She did not answer. He bore it for a little time longer, then he said:

“How much longer is it going to last, Lettie?”

“What?”

“That sort of business. . . .”

“The piano?—I’ll stop playing if you don’t like it.”

She did not, however, cease.

“Yes—and all this dry business.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?—you make me.”

There she went on, tinkling away at: “If I built a world for you, dear.”

“I say, stop it, do!” he cried.

She tinkled to the end of the verse, and very slowly closed the piano.

“Come on—come and sit down,” he said.

“No, I don’t want to.—I’d rather have gone on playing.”

“Go on with your damned playing then, and I’ll go where there’s more interest.”

“You ought to like it.”