“You are positively eloquent to-night—both of you,” she declared. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Not very long, if you want to get well. Gianfrancesco never suspected that I had my own reasons for wanting you for my wife. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. ‘No! Let me alone!’ ‘It is not safe!’ ‘That is entirely my affair, and not your affair in the least,’ she told him haughtily. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise.
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