“Martin is simply absorbed in the thought of his concert,” she said. “And he is going to play just _all_ the things that make me laugh and cry. Personally, I shall go with five handkerchiefs and a copy of some English comic paper. The handkerchiefs are for the tears I shall shed, and the comic paper is to check my laughter when he plays the Paganini Variations. Dear Stella, how very wise of you to marry a genius. You will never be dull. But it is rather bold, too. Oh, please take Suez Canal out of the grate; he is trying to commit suicide, I think, because Sahara is not here. Yes. Geniuses are so unexpected and violent. It must be like marrying somebody who keeps several full-sized flashes of lightning about him, and also a large lump of damp clay. You never know which you will put your hand on, and they are both so dreadfully disconcerting.” Stella picked Suez Canal out of the grate. Apparently he was putting ashes on his head as a sign of mourning, and she dusted him carefully before replying. “I am disconcerted,” she said. Lady Sunningdale never pressed for a confidence. “To show that you want a thing,” she once said, “usually means that you are grudgingly given half of it. But if you firmly turn your back on it, it is hurled at you.” She turned her back now, using irrelevance again. “It is nearly three years since I was disconcerted,” she said, “and the terrible thing is that I quite forget what disconcerted me. I think it must have been Sunningdale. Do you know he spoke in the House of Lords the other day on one side, and then voted on the other. His reason was that he felt his own remarks to be so feeble that he was sure there was more to be said on the other side. But I believe he merely forgot. Yes. That marble fireplace is so good. Surely it must be Adams’s.” This was completely efficacious. “Shall I bore you, if I talk to you?” asked Stella. “No, dearest Stella. I love being talked to. What is it?” “It is Martin,” said she. The back view had done its part. Lady Sunningdale turned completely round again. “Dearest Stella,” she said, “pray put out the electric light. It is rather strong in my eyes. Yes, Martin now!” Stella felt as she turned out the light that this was exactly what she wished. In the dim flickering firelight her thoughts, drawn to the surface, became articulate more easily. “He is just what you say,” she said. “You touch him, and never know whether it is going to be lightning or clay. The lightning does not disconcert me. But, dear Lady Sunningdale, the clay does!” Lady Sunningdale was really immensely interested. She had her own methods of getting the girl to rummage in the dark corners of her mind and bring out all that was there, and she pursued them now.