“No, never!” she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The family tragedy had something to do with her decision, he was sure. He watched her interestedly. “Mother used to play—” she began. “Vera!” said Beatrice reproachfully. “Let us have a song,” suggested Mr. Holiday. “Mr. Holiday wishes to sing, Mother,” said Vera, going to the music-rack. “Nay—I—it’s not me,” Holiday began. “‘The Village Blacksmith’,” said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holiday advanced. Vera glanced at her mother. “But I have not touched the piano for—for years, I am sure,” protested Beatrice. “You can play beautifully,” said Vera. Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glared at him. Vera remained very calm. At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went out abruptly. “Mother has suddenly remembered that tomorrow’s jellies are not made,” laughed Vera. Allport looked at her, and was sad. When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. She would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply. Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At half past ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was studying a cookery-book. “You, too, at the midnight lamp!” exclaimed MacWhirter politely. “Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for tomorrow,” Beatrice replied. “We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well,” smiled the young man ironically. “I must look after you,” said Beatrice. “You do—wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude.” The meals were generally late, and something was always wrong. “Because I scan a list of puddings?” smiled Beatrice uneasily. “For the puddings themselves, and all your good things. The piano, for instance. That was very nice indeed.” He bowed to her. “Did it disturb you? But one does not hear very well in the study.” “I opened the door,” said MacWhirter, bowing again. “It is not fair,” said Beatrice. “I am clumsy now—clumsy. I once could play.” “You play excellently. Why that ‘once could’?” said MacWhirter. “Ah, you are amiable. My old master would have said differently,” she replied. “We,” said MacWhirter, “are humble amateurs, and to us you are more than excellent.” “Good old Monsieur Fannière, how he would scold me! He said I would not take my talent out of the napkin. He would quote me the New Testament. I always think Scripture false in French, do not you?” “Er—my acquaintance with modern languages is not extensive, I regret to say.” “No? I was brought up at a convent school near Rouen.” “Ah—that would be very interesting.” “Yes, but I was there six years, and the interest wears off everything.” “Alas!” assented MacWhirter, smiling. “Those times were very different from these,” said Beatrice. “I should think so,” said MacWhirter, waxing grave and sympathetic. XXXI