I had got so absorbed in
my work that I quite forgot our expected guest until I went into the
dining-room, unfortunately a little late, and found them already engaged
at dinner, and Mr. Bovyer with them. Mr. Winthrop explained my tardiness
in such a way that I was left a little cross and uncomfortable, and took
my dinner something after the fashion of a naughty child suffering from
reproof. Before the evening was over, however, I had forgotten my passing
dissatisfaction; for Mr. Bovyer was in one of his inspired moods when he
sat at the piano.
I noticed afterward that Mrs. Flaxman's eyes were very red; but while he
was playing my attention was taken up in part with the music, and partly
in furtively watching Mr. Winthrop. He seemed ill at ease, and restless;
while Mr. Bovyer's utmost efforts were powerless to move him to tears.
When we had all drawn cosily around the fire, after the music was ended,
I remarked with some regret, "I do not think Mr. Winthrop has any tears
to shed. His eyes were as dry as a bone."
"The night is too fine for such an effect. Wait until we have a storm,"
he said, with a smile.
"Your nerves are too strong for a storm to affect them. Something very
different will be required. I am afraid we must give you up."
"Life is too smooth with him for music or anything aesthetic to ruffle the
deeper springs. Wait until he has storms and whirlwinds to withstand."
Mr. Bovyer said, calmly.
"Oh I hope he will never have them, he has not patience like--some," I
added, after a pause.
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