You must forget it. You must indeed. There! Let us be
friends! I like you well enough for that."
He uttered a laugh that sounded as though it covered a groan. "Yes,
you're awfully good to me," he said. "But you're not--in one
sense--anything approaching my age, and pray Heaven you never will be!"
He raised his head and looked at her. "And you're not angry with me?" he
said, half wistfully.
No, she was not angry. She could not even pretend to be. "But please be
sensible!" she begged. "I know it was partly my fault. If I hadn't been
so tired, it wouldn't have happened."
He got to his feet, still holding her hands. "No; you're not to blame
yourself," he said. "What has happened was bound to happen, right from
the very beginning. But I'm sorry if it has upset you. There is no reason
why it should that I can see. You are better now?"
He helped her gently to rise. They stood face to face in the dim
candlelight, and his eyes looked into hers with such friendly concern
that again she had it not in her heart to be other than kind.
"I am quite well," she assured him. "Please forget my foolishness! Tell
me what it was you played just now!"
"That last thing?" he said. "Surely you know that! It was Handel's
_Largo_."
She started. "Of course! I remember now! But--I've never heard it played
like that before.
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