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It was about four in the morning before she could tear herself away from the ball．Her husband had been dozing since midnight in a little deserted drawing room with three other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the dance．
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She made a long speech of it; I condense. I can’t remember her exact words?there were so many; but she spoke like a book. There was something exquisitely piquant in her choice of words, in her expressionless voice. I seemed to be listening to a phonograph reciting a technical work. There was a touch of the incongruous, of the mad, that appealed to me?the commonplace rolling-down landscape, the straight, white, undulating road that, from the tops of rises, one saw running for miles and miles, straight, straight, and so white. Filtering down through the great blue of the sky came the thrilling of innumerable skylarks. And I was listening to a parody of a scientific work recited by a phonograph.
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