She ended by seriously
annoying him, though he did not complain. It was too trivial.
One afternoon he unfolded his novel views on touch. If the action of the
modern pianoforte could be made as sensitive in its response as the
fingerboard of a fiddle.... Constantia listened with her habitual
gravity, but he knew that she was bored. Then he shifted to the subject
of fingers. He begged to be allowed the privilege of examining hers. At
first she held back, burying her hand in the old Mechlin lace flounce of
her sleeves. He coaxed. He did not attempt to conceal his chagrin when
he finally saw her fingers. They were pudgy, good-humoured, fit to lift
a knife and fork, or to mend linen. They did not match her cameo-like
face, and above all they did not reveal the musical soul he knew her to
possess. For the first time since he met her she gave evidence of ill
humour. She sharply withdrew her hand from his, and as she did so a
barbaric croon was heard, a sort of triumphant wailing, and Constantia,
without making an excuse, hurriedly left the room.
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