"Kitty seems excited," she said. "I hope she hasn't been overdoing it lately."
"I think she looks very well and happy," said Pamela.
"Ah!" replied Lady Jane, as if it were hardly Pamela's business to have an opinion, and vouchsafed no further remark.
After she had turned over an evening paper, and tea had been brought, she went to the piano and began to play. She was a good musician, and Pamela, who had never heard good music, listened entranced. Then Lady Jane sang song after song, as if she had no listener; and as Pamela watched her, warmed with the emotion of the music, she felt that she could understand Lady Kitty's affection for the proud and cold woman.
At last Lady Jane stopped abruptly and came over to the fire. Pamela sat with bent head in the firelight till suddenly she lifted her eyes like wet violets. A sharp pang of memory shot through Lady Jane's heart. She turned away, and when she looked at Pamela her eyes were cold and cruel.
"You don't get much music at—at—I'm afraid I've forgotten the name?"
"Carrickmoyle," said Pamela.
"Ah! Carrickmoyle."
"No, we never hear any—except the squeaky old harmonium on Sundays. We have no piano."
"Nor newspapers, nor books, nor society, nor pictures?"