Thayleen West lowered her slender white hands from the piano keyboard and smiled to herself. She was satisfied with her music, herself, and her home. She had world fame as a concert pianist, and she had Kenyon, her husband—
She turned as he entered the room. It was late afternoon. The room was full of golden hues and soft, blurry shadows. Outside, through the french windows, the well kept garden drooped in saturating August heat.
‘That was wonderful, Thay!’ Kenyon came hurrying forward and caught the girl’s hands in his own. He was a lanky, genial soul, an engineer and a materialist, yet it did not make him an intolerable husband. Materialism and artistry could—and did—go hand-in-hand.
‘A change for us to be together, ’ Ken continued, putting an arm round the girl’s shoulders. ‘If only all Sundays were like this!’
‘They will be, after this year, ’ Thayleen said.
Ken smiled to himself and strolled to the open windows. He gazed out on the sunlight. His keen grey eyes followed the flight of a bird as it cavorted gaily in sombre blue heaven.
‘You said that last year, Thay, ’ he reminded her. ‘And the year before that. By all means go on playing to the world, but—sometimes—’