\" Lucy said. Probably she was married years ago and is now merely on the way to her husband's house. Far away there was the one woman for this boy of mine—some human being who would understand the dear fool better than all the rest of the world. She moved towards it slowly and picked it up, holding it out in front of her whilst the familiar perfume seemed to assert itself with damning insistence. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. ’ ‘Listen. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. It was for ever.
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