" "Would you like to have me come in and talk?" How tender that sounded!—talk! "If you want to. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown. She wondered occasionally why his mind needed so much distraction. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. All at once Melusine remembered Pottiswick, and the errand he had run.
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