“Oh, what are those for?” I asked. “Telegraphy?”
“No; I had those put there to improve the acoustics of this room. It was otherwise so bad to play and sing in.”
“Oh!” I said, and wondering why Blanche didn’t use the drawing-room to sing in, I glanced at the somber shape of the piano at the other end of the den.
“I wonder if you would allow me to practise in here sometimes—of course, only in the mornings?” I requested meekly. “When I go back to London, I shall want to see about a situation as music-teacher or something of that kind. I must have some definite work to do—besides yours, I mean!—and I ought to furbish up my playing.”
“Ah, you play, do you?” said Mr. Waters, in a tone of the deepest relief. “Good!”
He got up, switched on some more lights, and opened the piano.
“I wonder if you have a rarer accomplishment still. Can you accompany?”
“I should be able to,” said I, with a little bitter smile to myself.
For I’ve certainly spent hours enough at the piano with Sydney Vandeleur, practising or transposing his lyrics. He has a gift for pretty, tender melody-writing; he “sets” all his favourite verses....