Then Valade—was the man as big a fool as Nicholas?—tried again. He was beginning to think about her inordinately. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. She wished her father and aunt would not enjoy their dinner with such quiet determination. He had looked at it before without comprehension. Kicked out of there for something shady. “When can we be alone together?” She asked him, never loosening her grip. Her eyes seemed to be looking backwards. But this was not a season in which to be needlessly scrupulous.
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