She laughed again. ‘But they’re not both like me,’ she said. ‘I owe the Cumfrit part to George.’ ‘To George?’ he faltered. ‘He provided the Cumfrit. All I did was the Catherine bit.’ ‘Then--you’re married?’ ‘Isn’t everybody?’ ‘Good God, no,’ he cried. ‘It’s a disgusting thing to be. It’s hateful. It’s ridiculous. Tying oneself up to somebody for good and all. Everybody! I should think not. <i>I’m</i> not.’ ‘Oh, but you’re too young,’ she said, amused. ‘Too young? And what about you?’ She looked at him quickly, a doubt on her face; but the doubt changed to real surprise when she saw how completely he had meant it. She had a three-cornered face, like a pansy, like a kitten, he thought. He wanted to stroke her. He was sure she was exquisitely smooth and soft. And now there was George. ‘Does he--does your husband not like music?’ he asked, saying the first thing that came into his head, not really wanting in the least to know what that damned George liked or didn’t like. She hesitated. ‘I--don’t know,’ she said. ‘He--usedn’t to.’ ‘But he doesn’t come here?’ ‘How can he?’ She stopped, and then said softly, ‘The poor darling’s dead.’ His heart gave a bound. A widow. The beastly war had done one good thing, then,--it had removed George. ‘I say, I’m most frightfully sorry,’ he exclaimed with immense earnestness, and trying to look solemn. ‘Oh, it’s a long while ago,’ she said, bowing her head a little at the remembrance. ‘It can’t be so very long ago.’ ‘Why can’t it?’ ‘Because you haven’t had time.’ She again looked quickly at him, and again saw nothing but sincerity. Then she was silent a moment. She was thinking, ‘This is rather sweet’--and the ghost of a wistful little smile passed across her face. How old was he? Twenty-five or six; not more, she was sure. What a charming thing youth was,--so headlong, so generous and whole-hearted in its admirations and beliefs. He was a great, loosely built young man, with flame-coloured hair, and freckles, and bony red wrists that came a long way out of his sleeves when he sat supporting his head in his hands during the love scene, clutching it tighter and tighter as there was more and more of love. He had deep-set eyes, and a beautifully shaped broad forehead, and a wide, kindly mouth, and he radiated youth, and the discontents and quick angers and quicker appreciations of youth. She suppressed a small sigh, and laughed as she said, ‘You’ve only seen me at night. Wait till you see me in broad daylight.’ ‘Am I ever to be allowed to?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Don’t you ever come to the <i>matinées</i>?’ She knew he didn’t. ‘Oh--<i>matinées</i>. No, of course I can’t come to <i>matinées</i>. I have to grind all the week in my beastly office, and on Saturdays I go and play golf with an uncle who is supposed to be going to leave me all his money.’ ‘You should cherish him.’ ‘I do. And I haven’t minded till now. But it’s an infernal tie-up directly one wants to do anything else.’