15
Miriam’s rhythmic clangour doubled its resonance in the tiled conservatory as the great lid of the piano went up.
“Magnifique, Mirry, parfaitement magnifique,” intoned Tommy Babington, appearing in the doorway with Meg on his arm.
“Bonsoir, Tomasso.”
“You are like an expressive metronome.”
“Oh—nom d’un pipe.”
“You would make a rhinoceros dance.”
Adjusting his pince-nez he dexterously seized tall Meg and swung her rapidly in amongst the dancers.
“Sarah’ll say he’s had a Turkish bath,” thought Miriam, recalling the unusual clear pallor of his rather overfed face. “Pleated shirt. That’s to impress Meg.”
She felt all at once that the air seemed cold. It was not like a summer night. How badly the ferns were arranged. Nearly all of them together on the staging behind the end of the piano; not enough visible from the drawing-room. Her muscles were somehow stiffening into the wrong mood. Presently she would be playing badly. She watched the forms circling past the gap in the curtains and slowed a little. The room seemed fairly full.
“That’s it—perfect, Mim,” signalled Harriett’s partner, swinging her by. She held to the fresh rhythm and passing into a tender old waltz tune that she knew by heart gave herself to her playing. She need not watch the feet any longer. She could go on for ever. She knew she was not playing altogether for the dancers. She was playing to two hearers. But she could not play that tune if they came. They would be late. But they must be here now. Where were they? Were they having coffee? Dancing? She flung a terrified glance at the room and met the cold eye of Bevan Seymour. She would not look again. The right feeling for the dreamy old tune came and went uncontrollably. Why did they not come? Presently she would be cold and sick and done for, for the evening. She played on, harking back to the memory of the kindly challenge in the eyes of her brother-in-law to be, dancing gravely with a grave Harriett—fearing her ... writing in her album:
“She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts—
Which terminated all.”
... cold, calm little Harriett. Her waltz had swung soft and low and the dancers were hushed. Only Tommy Babington’s voice still threaded the little throng.
Someone held back the near curtain. A voice said quietly, “Here she is.”