But his refusal to face facts about her musical career was another thing altogether.  Once more he had, patently and rather pitiably, evaded the subject of her going seriously to work.  Did he think that she could go on indefinitely parading a parlor accomplishment for his society friends,—­singing nice little English songs for Wallace Hood?  It was too ridiculous!  That hadn’t been their understanding when she married him.

What she had been sure of last night as never before, she had tried down there in the dining-room to convey to him; that her powers were ripe, were crying out for use.  She had failed simply because he had refused to see what she was driving at.  It was just another form of jealousy really, she supposed.

She was not an introspective person, but this, clearly, was something that wanted thinking over.  It was to “think” that she went out for the walk.  Only, being Paula, the rhythm of her stride, the sparkle of the spring air, the stream of sharp new-minted sensations incessantly assailing eye and ear, soon swamped her problem; sunk it beneath the level of consciousness altogether.  Long before ten o’clock when she came swinging along Dearborn Avenue toward her husband’s house, she had “walked off” her perplexities.

A block from the house she found herself overtaking a man in uniform and slackened her pace a little in order not to pass him.  There was something unmilitary about the look of him that mildly amused her.  It was not that he slouched nor shuffled nor that he was ill-made, though he was probably one of those unfortunates whom issue uniforms never fit.  He carried a little black leather satchel, and it broke over Paula that here perhaps was Lucile’s piano tuner.  She half formed the intention to stay away another hour or two until he should have had time to finish.  But he interfered with that plan by stopping in front of the house and looking at it as if making up his mind whether to go in.

It was an odd look he had, but distinctly an engaging one.  He was not criticizing the architecture, if so it could be called, of the house-front.  Yet there was a sort of comfortable detachment about him which precluded the belief that it was a mere paralyzing shyness that held him there.

Paula abandoned her intention of walking by.  She stopped instead as she came up to him and said, “Are you coming in here?  If you are, I’ll let you in.”  She fished an explanatory latch-key out of her wrist-bag as she went up the steps.

“Why,” he said, “I believe this is the house where I’m expected to tune a piano.”

In the act of thrusting home her key, Paula stopped short, turned irrepressibly and stared at him.  She was one of that very small number of American-born singers who take the English language seriously and she knew good speech when she heard it.  It was one of the qualities which had first attracted her to Doctor John.  This man’s speaking voice would have arrested her attention pleasantly anywhere.  Coming from the private soldier Lucile had told to come round to tune the piano, it really startled her.  She turned back to the door and opened it.