"Lots of time for _not_ seeing each other ever again."
She sat staring mournfully, seeing before her the agony of separation.
"Nonsense," said Jerrold. "Why on earth shouldn't you come out to India
too? I say, that would be a lark, wouldn't it? You would come, wouldn't
you?"
"Like a shot," said Anne.
"Would you give up your farm to come?"
"I'd give up anything."
"_That's_ all right. Let's go and play tennis."
They played for two hours straight on end, laughing and shouting.
Adeline, intensely bored by Eliot and his absurd affairs, came down the
lawn to look at them. She loved their laughter. It was good to have Anne
there. Anne was so happy.
John Severn came to her.
"Did you ever see anything happier than that absurd boy?" she said. "Why
can't Eliot be jolly and contented, too, like Jerrold?"
"Don't you think the chief reason may be that he _isn't_ Jerrold?"
"Jerrold's adorable. He's never given me a day's trouble since he was
born."
"No. It's other women he'll give trouble to," said John, "before he's
done."
Secretly, mysteriously he began; then broke, sharply, impatiently,
crescendo, as the passion of the music mounted up and up. And now as it
settled into its rhythm his hands ran smoothly and joyously along.
The west window of the drawing-room was open to the terrace. Eliot and
Anne sat out there and listened.
"He's wonderful, isn't he?" she said.
Eliot shook his head. "Not so wonderful as he was. Not half so wonderful
as he ought to be. He'll never be good enough for a professional. He
knows he won't."
"What's happened?"
"Nothing. That's just it. Nothing ever will happen. He's stuck. It's the
same with his singing. He'll never be any good if he can't go away and
study somewhere. If it isn't Berlin or Leipzig it ought to be London.
But father can't live there and the mater won't go anywhere without him.
So poor Col-Col's got to stick here doing nothing, with the same rotten
old masters telling him things he knew years ago.... It'll be worse next
term when he goes to Cheltenham. He won't be able to practice, and
nobody'll care a damn.... Not that that would matter if he cared
himself."
Colin was playing the slow movement now, the grave, pure passion,
pressed out from the solemn bass, throbbed, tense with restraint.
"Oh Eliot, he _does_ care."
"In a way. Not enough to keep on at it. You've got to slog like blazes,
if you want to get on."