I did not speak to Mollie about Walter at first, nor to Hugo.
It was almost a week before I saw Hugo again and then we were
all together, and Sophia was there too. We were going to a concert,
a Mozart concert at the Queen’s Hall. We did not go to dances
so often since Sophia came, because she couldn’t dance. I danced
with George and Guy sometimes, Mollie and I, without Hugo; but
of course that was not the same thing.
The concert was lovely. It made us all happy. I felt that I had
been horrid to Sophia, and that I would be nicer.
We went back to Hugo’s rooms and had coffee. It looked very pleasant,
Hugo’s room that night, with the fire flickering on the low ceiling
and the blue curtains and the charioteer.
Hugo said:
‘That music does one good. People could not be bad-tempered or
fussed or worried if they heard some Mozart played every day
before they got up.’
Guy hummed an Aria from Don Giovanni, a bit we had heard.
‘That is about the most perfect thing of all,’ he said.
Mollie was pouring out the coffee; she always did that part.
‘I think sometimes,’ said Sophia, ‘that music is all wrong, and
poetry too, and all that we call art. I wonder sometimes if it
isn’t all a kind of dope that we make for ourselves because we
can’t face life; and it seems all pointless then.’