“Thank you, but I must be running back. My husband usually gets home about this time, and I make a little point of it always to be there.”
“That's very sweet.” Mrs. Vertrees descended the steps and walked toward the street with Sibyl. “It's quite balmy for so late in November, isn't it? Almost like a May evening.”
“I'm afraid Miss Vertrees will miss her piano,” said Sibyl, watching the instrument disappear into the big van at the curb. “She plays wonderfully, Mrs. Kittersby tells me.”
“Yes, she plays very well. One of your relatives came to hear her yesterday, after dinner, and I think she played all evening for him.”
“You mean Bibbs?” asked Sibyl.
“The—the youngest Mr. Sheridan. Yes. He's very musical, isn't he?”
“I never heard of it. But I shouldn't think it would matter much whether he was or not, if he could get Miss Vertrees to play to him. Does your daughter expect the piano back soon?”
“I—I believe not immediately. Mr. Sheridan came last evening to hear her play because she had arranged with the—that is, it was to be removed this afternoon. He seems almost well again.”
“Yes.” Sibyl nodded. “His father's going to try to start him to work.”
“He seems very delicate,” said Mrs. Vertrees. “I shouldn't think he would be able to stand a great deal, either physically or—” She paused and then added, glowing with the sense of her own adroitness—“or mentally.”