I knew she was a great hand to be trying patent medicines and supposed she referred to some bottled stuff, so I said,
“Oh, well, if that’s all, I can send for your medicine, or perhaps I can get some at Egerton.”
She looked at me in surprise as she said,
“I didn’ say nothin’ ’bout med’cine. I said I left my ’cordeen—”
“Oh, your accordeon. Can you play that?” said I, thankful that she had forgotten it.
“Yes indeedy.”
Her face grew pensive as she thought of the dreadful musical instrument which she had mercifully forgotten. I had never heard her use it at home, but Ethel told me afterward that she had been in the habit of going up on the roof with other cooks and the janitor, and that her departure was always followed by weird strains which Ethel had supposed was the janitor discoursing music that had the dyingest fall of anything ever heard. But it seems that Minerva was the performer, and among those whose ears are ravished by the “linked sweetness long drawn out”—and then pushed back again, she was accounted an adept.
Perhaps I could hold her by means of the accordeon. It was worth trying.
“Minerva,” said I, “Mrs. Vernon tells me that you want me to drive you down to the station and get you a ticket for New York. Now, if you go it will be a discreditable performance and an act unworthy of one who has always been well treated.”
I paused. The words were some of them a little beyond her, but they had made the more impression for that very fact.