Mary laughed. “I? I strum! Piano. A little Chopin—Grieg—Chaminade. You wouldn't listen!”
Bibbs drew a deep breath. “I'm frightened again,” he said, in an unsteady voice. “I'm afraid you'll think I'm pushing, but—” He paused, and the words sank to a murmur.
“Oh, if you want ME to play for you!” she said. “Yes, gladly. It will be merely absurd after what you heard this afternoon. I play like a hundred thousand other girls, and I like it. I'm glad when any one's willing to listen, and if you—” She stopped, checked by a sudden recollection, and laughed ruefully. “But my piano won't be here after to-night. I—I'm sending it away to-morrow. I'm afraid that if you'd like me to play to you you'd have to come this evening.”
“You'll let me?” he cried.
“Certainly, if you care to.”
“If I could play—” he said, wistfully, “if I could play like that old man in the church I could thank you.”
“Ah, but you haven't heard me play. I KNOW you liked this afternoon, but—”
“Yes,” said Bibbs. “It was the greatest happiness I've ever known.”
It was too dark to see his face, but his voice held such plain honesty, and he spoke with such complete unconsciousness of saying anything especially significant, that she knew it was the truth. For a moment she was nonplussed, then she opened the gate and went in. “You'll come after dinner, then?”
“Yes,” he said, not moving. “Would you mind if I stood here until time to come in?”