"Why on earth didn't you accompany yourself?" he asked in a low voice.
"You knew what a muddler that girl was, I suppose."

"Yes. She plays like a distracted black beetle--horrid creature!"

"Then--why?"

"I look ridiculous sitting at the piano."

"Ridiculous--you--"

"Well, I hold them far more when I stand up. They can't get away from me
then."

"And you'd rather have your singing ruined than part for a moment with a
scrap of your physical influence, of the influence that comes from your
beauty, not your talent--your face, not your soul. Viola, you're just the
same."

"Lady Holme," she said.

"P'sh! Why?"

"My little husband's fussy."

"And much you care if he is."

"Oh, yes, I do. He sprawls when he fusses and knocks things over, and
then, when I've soothed him, he always goes and does Sandow exercises and