It was an evening of spring, but spring had come with little promise that way. Ashes of homes and the sour dead lay too thickly over those fields, for nature to make her great recovery in one season. The task was too heavy for even her vast renewals. Patience, she seemed to say, I come again.
The Commandant was sitting at ease enjoying his pipe.
"Mademoiselle Hilda," said he. Hilda was sitting at the piano, but no tunes were flowing. She was behaving badly that evening and she knew it. She fumbled with the sheaves of music, and chucked Scotch under the chin, and doctored the candles. She was manifesting all the younger elements in her twenty-two years.
"Mademoiselle Hilda," insisted the Commandant. He was sentimental, and full of old-world courtesies, but he was used to being obeyed. Hilda became rapt in contemplating a candlestick.
"Mademoiselle Hilda, a little music, if you please," he said with a finality.
"You play," said Hilda to Scotch, sliding off the soap-box which served to uphold the artist to her instrument.
"Hilda, you make me tired," chided Scotch. "The Commandant has given you his orders."
"Oh, all right," said Hilda.
She played pleasantly with feeling and technique. More of her hidden life came to an utterance with her music than at other times. She led her notes gently to a close.