"Why, of course."
When Callcott came over to Torestin, either Victoria came with him, or she invited Harriet across to Wyewurk. Wyewurk was the name of Jack's bungalow. It had been built by a man who had inherited from an aunt a modest income, and who had written thus permanently his retort against society on his door.
"Wyewurk?" said Jack. "Because you've jolly well got to."
The neighbours nearly always spoke of their respective homes by their elegant names. "Won't Mrs Somers go across to Wyewurk, Vicky says. She's making a blouse or something, sewing some old bits of rag together—or new bits—and I expect she'll need a pageful of advice about it." This was what Jack had said. Harriet had gone with apparent alacrity, but with real resentment. She had never in all her life had "neighbours," and she didn't know what neighbouring really meant. She didn't care for it, on trial. Not after she and Victoria had said and heard most of the things they wanted to say and hear. But they liked each other also. And though Victoria could be a terribly venomous little cat, once she unsheathed her claws and became rather "common," still, so long as her claws were sheathed her paws were quite velvety and pretty, she was winsome and charming to Harriet, a bit deferential before her, which flattered the other woman. And then, lastly, Victoria had quite a decent piano, and played nicely, whereas Harriet had a good voice, and played badly. So that often, as the two men played chess or had one of their famous encounters, they would hear Harriet's strong, clear voice singing Schubert or Schumann or French or English folk songs, whilst Victoria played. And both women were happy, because though Victoria was fond of music and had an instinct for it, her knowledge of songs was slight, and to be learning these old English and old French melodies, as well as the German and the Italian songs, was a real adventure and a pleasure to her.
They were still singing when Jack returned.
"Still at it!" he said manfully, from the background, chewing his little pipe.
Harrict looked round. She was just finishing the joyous moan of Plaisir d'amour, a song she loved because it
