“I had one in my rooms at college,” Wendell said. “You can get a lot of fun out of a pianola. Just as good as a piano, and not half the fag.”

“Oh, no, they’re dreadful!” Elizabeth said suddenly. “So horribly churned out.”

“Hurray!” Nina cried. “Down with pianolas and barrel-organs. Elizabeth, have you ever heard Musetta’s song on a barrel-organ? It fascinated me. Like a dog against its will. I stood on the curb-stone and shivered all down my spine. Yes, and gave the man sixpence to play it again. Nobody understood my feelings except Aunt Charmian, and she said, Like looking at snakes.”

“Just what mater would say,” Stephen remarked. “Do you know my mother, Wendell?”

“No, haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet.”

“When you do,” Stephen said, “she’ll probably say, ‘Ah, I once had a chauffeur whose name was Charles.’ So don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“A chauffeur?” Wendell repeated, in mystification.

“Or a parrot, or a pet duck. Anything that’s thoroughly uncomplimentary,” Nina explained. “She always does it. When I was born she begged mother not to call me Nina as she’d once had a cat of that name and it died.”

“Oh, I see!” Wendell said, and laughed, trying to sound as though he really did see and was amused.

He didn’t like Nina; Elizabeth could see that. When Nina had gone, he said,

“Pretty girl, what? Always get the wind up with those clever women. Never know what they’re driving at. More in Stephen’s line than mine, so I let him do all the talking.”

That touched Elizabeth on the raw. Nina was “in Stephen’s line”—how well she knew that! Nina and Stephen understood one another; they had the same interests, and they thought the same things funny. They talked nonsense to each other, and neither thought that it was nonsense. Or if they did, they considered that it was amusing to be silly and inconsequent. Elizabeth didn’t think it amusing at all. It got on her nerves; it was a strain to have to follow their line of thought. Not only that. It was usually impossible.

Stephen’s book was finished at last, and had gone to his typist. The publishers were impatient to see it; there was no doubt that they would accept it. Already they had begun to advertise.

“That’s off my chest!” Stephen said. “They wanted to publish in the spring; I insist on June or later. Just before the summer holidays. Next there’ll be my typist’s idiocy to correct, and then—oh, ghastly job—proofs! And, Elizabeth—” he caught her in his arms. “I want my wife!”

She hoped he would not notice the hard beating of her heart. Why was he so insistent? Couldn’t he understand that she wanted to be left alone?

He was coaxing, petting her.