“What? You can’t read music?”

“Only very slowly.”

“Then how do you learn all these things?”

“Mostly from ear.”

“You mean you’ve never been taught music?”

She shook her head a third time.

“Well, it’s very remarkable. You certainly ought to have training.”

“May I practise while I am here?”

“Why, certainly. You’ll find a lot of classical stuff in the cabinet — my own tastes.”

“You play the piano?”

“The violin — but not much. What time does a doctor have?”

And he went away to his daily duties, vaguely wondering whether he should introduce her to Jaggers, the Cathedral organist, or to Yule, the Cathedral choirmaster, and let them share his discovery. Perhaps they might even give her lessons. And perhaps at the musical party he usually gave once a year he might ask her to play something. That wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.

After that, and mostly during the afternoons when Jessica was out, Leni played the piano in the drawing-room. He didn’t realize what she was doing until one day, by accident, he came in and heard her playing the piano part of the Kreutzer Sonata. He stood outside the drawing-room door and listened till she had finished. Then he entered.“But you learned that from music?”

“It was very slow and difficult for me to pick out the notes, but when I had done that, then I knew it from memory. I’ve been practising a lot lately.”

“Fine. But I still think you ought to have some proper training.”

Smilingly he walked away, again registering an intention of talking to Jaggers or Yule about her. But at the back of his mind in such a matter there was always the thought of Jessica; she might not approve — one could never prophesy her attitude. After fifteen years of married life he had acquired an intense reluctance to make decisions of any kind outside his own immediate professional territory; only by such reluctance was he insulated against the kind of conflict in which, because it would so intensely bore him, he could not fight to any advantage.

So he did not actually mention Leni to Jaggers or Yule or, indeed, to anyone; but he went on thinking he ought to do, and must do, and perhaps would do so, one of those days.

But one of those days, a July day, David returned to Calderbury after his weekly visit to Sandmouth. There had been showers during the afternoon, but by evening the sky had totally cleared, and as he walked from the railway station the towers of the Cathedral seemed to exude a memory of both sunshine and rain. It was very beautiful at such a time, especially the view over the town, the mist rising above roofs, a hint of human cosiness in all that huddle of buildings. As David crossed the Close a lamplighter stopped near by, his face upturned to the glow he made.

“Good night, doctor.”

“Good night, Ben.”

Suddenly, walking on towards Shawgate, he met Leni. “Why —” he began, as if he had not seen her for years. She stopped, smiling but silent. “Taking a walk?” he said.