’ Fire enveloped Charvill’s mind and he brought up his cane, pointed like a musket. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. Hill closed his eyes. He was beginning to think about her inordinately. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. Easy enough.
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