“No, it was simple. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. And Capes was thinking that his wife was a supremely beautiful woman. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. I want you to be my lover. Manning,” she began.
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