I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. Stanley went on, “but there are things— there are stories about Ramage. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. Go to her and tell her. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably. “Useless—worse than useless. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them.
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