"But, Finch, Renny was paying for a winter in California!"
"I know. But Eden didn't want to go to California. He wanted a year in France. He must have it because of something he's going to write. I can't explain. You understand how it is. You left your work and came here to nurse him because of his poetry. It makes you feel that what he is doesn't really matter. You and I feel the same about art, I think. I hope you don't think I'm a fool." He was very red in the face.
She must not hurt his feelings by deprecating his act. Ah, but Eden would never pay him the money back! She put a hand on each of his cheeks, and kissed him.
"It was a beautiful thing to do, Finch! I'll not tell a soul. . . . Strange how he uses us, and then leaves us standing staring at the spot where he has been."
She took the letter from Finch and read it again. The colour returned to her face in a flood.
"I wish I hadn't let you read it. Because of—things he said. You must forget them. He's so—ruthless."
Finch grunted acquiescence. Of course. That about Renny and her. Still . . . he stared into the deserted nest from whence the singer had flown. How desolate! How lonely it was here! No place for a woman.
He broke out: "You can't stop here to-night! You must come back with me."
"I am not afraid."
"It's not that. It's the gruesomeness. I couldn't stick it myself. I'll not leave you."
"I would rather be here."
"No. It won't do! Please come. Aunt will like to have you. There's your old room waiting."
She consented. They returned.
There were lights upstairs now, but a light still burned in the drawing-room, and from it came the sound of the piano. Nicholas was playing.
From the hall they could see his grey leonine head and heavy shoulders bent above the keyboard. Alayne remembered with a pang that she had not asked him to play that evening, though she had urged Finch.
