“All right,” said Miss Ingate; “I’ll write to him. I’m sure he’ll expect something. Have you finished your letters?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s this one on the table, then?”
“I shan’t go on with that one.”
“Any message for Musa?”
“You might tell him,” said Audrey, carefully examining the drawn curtains of the window, “that I happened to meet a French concert agent this morning who was very interested in him.”
“Did you?” cried Miss Ingate. “Where?”
“It was when I was out with Mr. Foulger. The agent asked me whether I’d heard a man named Musa play in Paris. Of course I said I had. He told me he meant to take him up and arrange a tour for him. So you might tell Musa he ought to be prepared for anything.”
“Wonders will never cease!” said Miss Ingate. “Have I got enough stamps?”
“I don’t see anything wonderful in it,” Audrey sharply replied. “Lots of people in Paris know he’s a great player, and those Jew concert agents are always awfully keen—at least, so I’m told. Well, perhaps, after all, you’d better not tell him. It might make him conceited.... Now, look here, Winnie, do hurry up, and let’s go out and post those letters. I can’t stand this huge house. I keep on imagining all the empty rooms in it. Hurry up and come along.”