It was an unusual hour at which to see him in the drawing-room, and Lesley looked up in surprise. Then, half unconsciously, half timidly, she drew her filmy embroidered handkerchief over the book in her lap. She had a shy dislike to letting her father see what she was reading.
He did not seem, however, to take any notice of her occupation. He walked straight to an arm-chair on the opposite side of the hearth, sat down, stretching out his long legs, and placing his elbows on the arms of the chair. The unruly lock of hair, which no hairdresser could tame, had fallen right across his broad brow, and heightened the effect of a very undeniable frown. Mr. Caspar Brooke was in anything but an amiable temper.
It was with a laudable attempt, however, to keep the displeasure out of his voice that he said at length—
"I thought I understood you to say, Lesley, that you were not musical!"
The color flushed Lesley's face to the very roots of her hair.
"I do not think I am—very musical," she said, trying to answer bravely. "I play the piano very little."
"Of course you must know that that is a quibble," said Mr. Brooke, dryly. "A talent for music does not confine itself solely to the piano. I presume that you have been told that you have a good voice?"
"Yes, I have been told so."
"And you have had lessons?"
"Yes, a few."