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He smiled. “Anyway, let’s not talk about it. This concert…” He trailed off. Isabel knew there were occasions when Jamie did not look forward to a performance, and the shrug that he gave revealed that this was one. “What is wrong with it? ” He drew an imaginary line on the table, a casual, invisible doodle that she assumed divided the evening’s offering into two. “Some of the pieces are interesting. The others…well…” He reached for the programme that Isabel had bought in the lobby. “Here. This new piece.
Men switch off and let you talk, but all the time something else is going on in their minds. “Fleurs-de-lis,” said Isabel, running her hand along the raised plaster motifs on the wall of the stairway. “Who are they? People I don’t know very well. And I think that I owe them, anyway. I was here for dinner three years ago, if I remember correctly. And I never invited them back. I meant to, but didn’t. ” She smiled at herself for using the excuse You know how it is. It was such a convenient, all-purpose excuse that one could tag it on to just about anything.
She wanted to ask Grace about this, but the words died on her lips. Her question would not sound serious, however careful she was in the framing of it, and Grace, who was sensitive on these matters, would take offence, would become taciturn. It was just too easy to poke fun at spiritualist beliefs; Madame Arcati and her blithe spirits never seemed far away, with their knocking once for yes and twice for no and all their Delphic predictions. She folded up her newspaper and rose to her feet. As editor—and now owner—of the Review of Applied Ethics, Isabel was free of the tyranny of office hours, but she was conscientious to a fault.