He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. She continued to fan herself. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. We think if we just defy the friends we have and go out into the world everything will become easy and splendid. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Mr. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. ” “Why not?” she asked quietly.
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