A dreamy sense of content crept over him. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. He rang the doorbell, even though she had already cracked the door for him. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. “You must come home to him at once,” said Miss Stanley. “It has been a delightful evening for me. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “He is not—I don’t like him. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice.
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