"Then let him spout it at some other time, when I'm not present. I suppose there'll be no peace till it's finished. Give him a gentle hint."
"I'll try. But won't it hurt his feelings?"
"Not any more than my going to sleep directly he starts reading, I should think."
Therefore, on the next occasion, before the manuscript could be unfolded, Stella went to the piano.
"No reading to-night, Mr. Flint. We're going to have some music. I want you to hear how my husband can sing. Come along, Robert." Her fingers rippled lightly over the keys, and Robert sang readily, lustily, song after song, much to his own enjoyment, and presumably to that of the guest, who applauded with tact, and requested encores till the performer, in high good humour, declared he was hoarse and could sing no more. Then Mrs. Crayfield continued the concert, and Philip sat gazing his fill at the vision she presented, the light from the wall-lamp behind her gilding her hair, her voice sweet and true, causing his heart to ache with ominous yearning. He felt confident she found pleasure in his friendship, yet to-night he was puzzled by her attitude until, the music put away and the piano closed, she said with an assumption of matronly indulgence: "I'm afraid we haven't considered poor George Thomas. How is he getting on?"
"Oh, pretty well, thank you."
"Has the slave girl escaped?"
"Not yet; it's rather difficult; but I mustn't bore you any more with my attempts at fiction." Purposely he spoke in a tone of humble discouragement; he was feeling his way.
"Bring the stuff over to-morrow before we play tennis," suggested Robert magnanimously, "and the memsahib will listen; stories amuse her."
"Oh, may I? But," turning to Stella, "won't it interfere with your afternoon siesta?"