"
He crossed the room and returned with a newspaper.
"I saw your music in the hall as I came in," he remarked. "Are
you singing to-night?"
The question was entirely in his ordinary tone. It brought her
back to the world of every-day things as nothing else could have
done.
"Yes; isn't it luck?" she told him. "Three in one week. I only
heard an hour ago."
"A city dinner?" he inquired.
"Something of the sort," she replied. "I am to be at the
Whitehall Rooms at ten o'clock. If you are tired, Leonard,
please let me go alone. I really do not mind. I can get a 'bus
to the door, there and back again."
"I am not tired," he declared. "To tell you the truth, I
scarcely know what it is to be tired. I shall go with you, of
course."
She looked at him with a momentary admiration of his powerful
frame, his strong, forceful face.
"It seems too bad," she remarked, "after a long day's work to
drag you out again."
He smiled.
"I really like to come," he assured her. "Besides," he added,
after a moment's pause, "I like to hear you sing."
"I wonder if you mean that?" she asked, looking at him curiously.
"I have watched you once or twice when I have been singing to
you. Do you really care for it?"
"Certainly I do. How can you doubt it? I do not," he continued,
slowly, "understand music, or anything of that sort, of course,
any more than I do the pictures you take me to see, and some of
the books you talk about.
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