'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.