"Oh, no, indeed! He has not looked the same side of the room as me since Saturday."
"Poor man, I am not surprised!"
"Serve him right!" said Aspasia, indefinite but vindictive.
"It is not Mr. Simpson, surely?"
"Simpson?" echoed the girl, with supreme contempt, "that little worm!"
"Who is it, then? For something, or some one, has upset you."
"Oh, I don't know! It's Major Bethune, I think. I don't believe he's canny. He has got such queer eyes."
Then, thinking she saw her aunt shudder, she gave her a remorseful hug and flew to the piano to plunge into melodious fireworks.
With a sigh as of one oppressed, Lady Gerardine took up her book again and endeavoured to absorb herself. For years she had successfully cultivated the faculty of leading her mind into peaceful places; but to-night there was no wandering forth with Thoreau's pure ghost into the whispering green woods he loved. Stormy echoes from the past were in her ears; relentless hands were forcing her back into the arid spaces where dwelt the abomination of desolation. Everything seemed to conspire against her, even Aspasia's music.
The girl's fingers had slid into a prelude of Chopin, and the familiar notes which she had been wont to reel off with the most perfect and heartless technique were now sighing—nay, wailing—under her touch.