"Yes, I see"—receiving the cup from her hand and carrying it out to his host who was absorbed in a blue document. (Mr. Quentin had trained him to efface himself in this fashion, for to be quite frank, he could not stand that gentleman's society, much less his songs and sentimental speeches.)
"I suppose," said Mr. Lisle, as he passed the piano—Helen's own property,—"that that is Quentin's last new ditty," indicating a piece on the music stand. "I know it's just in his line, 'Told in the Twilight.'"
"Yes."
"I'm sure it gives him great pleasure coming over here, and listening to your music?"
"I believe he derives some enjoyment from his own singing also," she replied, demurely,—remembering the hours that she had toiled over his accompaniments. "Are you musical?"
"In theory only, not in practice. I am very fond of listening to a string band, or to good instrumental performers, but as far as I'm concerned myself, I cannot play on a comb, much less a Jew's-harp! I see"—glancing at some books—"that you read, Miss Denis. May I ask where you get your literature?"
"Some from the library at Calcutta,—some from Mr. Quentin." This latter announcement was a shock.
"Ah!—I daresay his contributions are more entertaining than instructive! So you read French novels?"
"Oh, no!"—becoming scarlet—"I have never read any except a few French stories, Miss Twigg picked out. Mr. Quentin merely lends me books of poetry and magazines, more solid reading I get elsewhere."
"Why do you read solid books?"