She looked round at him with a little smile, mocking and bewitching at once. She had seated herself at the instrument again and was running her fingers lightly over the keys.
“Are they not beautiful?” she said.
He had stolen up behind her.
“They are,” he murmured. “Like white butterflies fluttering over the chiming flowers of fairyland.”
“Mr. Tuke!” she said—“what are?”
“Your fingers, of course.”
“Oh, fie, sir! I spoke of these melodious pianofortes. Is not mine a darling? ’Tis by Clementi, and a present from my brother.”
“How can I take this praise on trust?”
“You need not, if you have already been eavesdropping—dropping like a spider, I should say.”
“Sing to me.”