Not much conversation passed between them. When they were nearing Millstead, Speed said: "The other day as I passed near your drawing-room window I heard somebody playing the Chopin waltzes. Was it you?"
"It might have been."
He continued after a pause: "I see there's a Chopin recital advertised in the town for next Monday week. Zobieski, the Polish pianist, is coming up. Would you care to come with me to it?"
It was very daring of him to say that, and he knew it. She coloured to the roots of her wet-gold hair, and replied, after a silence: "Monday, though, isn't it?—I'm afraid I couldn't manage it. I always see Clare on Mondays."
He answered instantly: "Bring Clare as well then."
"I—I don't think Clare would be interested," she replied, a little confused. She added, as if trying to m
