“An’ you go on to-night?”
“From nine to eleven, yes,” he explained, and felt ashamed that he was so weary. And she had been working in that stuffy, unhealthy dining room and kitchen since half-past six and was as cheerful as ever.
“You’ll be needin’ a rest now,” she went on.
“Oh no!” he hastily assured her.
“Then will you play for me? I never heard you play, an’ I’ve heard Mr. Breen an’ Mr. Nielsen talk so much about you.”
“They are flatterers,” he said, with a self-conscious laugh. “But if you’d like—if you—would you really like to have me?”
“Of course.”
This was his next opportunity, but again, his courage would not assist him. What should he play? “Do you really feel like listening?” he began once more.
“Of course—I like music,” she argued.
There was nothing else to do. He had better start playing. And Carstairs turned on the stool. “What shall I play for you?”