Henrietta’s suspicions were confirmed by these eulogies: she knew already that what Mrs. Batty appreciated, her son would despise, and she kept her little smile, saying tactfully, “It certainly made one want to dance.” “Can you sing?” he asked. “Oh, a little.” She became timid. “I’m going to learn.” With those vague eyes staring at her, she felt the need of justification. “Aunt Caroline says every girl ought to sing. She and Aunt Sophia used to sing duets.” “Good heavens!” The exclamation came from the depths of Charles Batty’s being. “They don’t do it now, do they?” Henrietta’s pretty laughter rang out. “No, not now.” But though she laughed there came to her a rather charming picture of her aunts in full skirts and bustles, their white shoulders bare, with sashes round their waists and a sheet of music shared, their mouths open, their eyes cast upwards. “Every girl ought to sing,” Charles quoted, and suddenly darted at Henrietta the word, “Why?” “Oh, well—” It was ridiculous to be discomposed by this young man, to whom, she was sure, she was naturally superior; but sitting behind that piano as though it were a pulpit, he had an air of authority and she was anxious to propitiate him. “Well—” Henrietta repeated, hanging on the word. “For your own glorification, that’s all,” Charles told her. “That’s all.” He caught his head in his hands. “It drives me mad.” “Charles!” Mrs. Batty said again. That word seemed to be the whole extent of her intercourse with him. “Mad! Music—divine! And people get up and squeak. How they dare! A violation of the temple!” “Oh, dear me!” Mrs. Batty groaned. “You play the piano yourself,” Henrietta said. “Because I can. I’d show you if you cared about it.” “I think I would rather go and see Mr. Batty’s flowers.” “Yes, dear, do. Charles, take her to your father.” Mrs. Batty was very hot; it would be a relief to her to heave and sigh alone. Charles rose and advanced, stooping a little, carrying his arms as though they did not belong to him and, in the hall, beside one of the gleaming statues, he paused. “I’ve offended you,” he said miserably. “I make mistakes—somehow. Nobody explains. I shall do it again.” “You were rather rude,” Henrietta said. “Why should you assume that I squeak?” “Sure to,” Charles said hopelessly, “or gurgle. Look here, I’ll teach you myself, if you like.” “I won’t be bullied.” “Then you’ll never learn anything. Women are funny,” he said; “but then everybody is. Do you know, I haven’t a single friend in the world?” “Why not?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t get on.” “If it comes to that, I haven’t a friend of my own age, either. And you have a brother.” “Ratting!” Charles said eloquently. “You’ll hear the noise.” He handed her over to his father’s care.