Who's the lucky boy, Lucy?\" Lucy looked at her slippered feet. “If I sit here,” he said, standing up before her abruptly, “I shall have to shout. ‘See that writing table? Go and look in the drawer there. He smothered it down with such a good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. She got out of bed, her eyes still half-closed, and stood slack jawed. Get it off your soul. You want music. She struggled fiercely not to give way. His eyes were red. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. She wondered why he was so distinctive, so unlike other men, and it never occurred to her for some time that this might be because she was falling in love with him.
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