“You can’t imagine me happy in a boarding-house,” she had challenged, “and I wouldn’t be able to have a piano there or give lessons!” There had been no answer to this; boarding in one place and renting a studio in another would be even more expensive than keeping the apartment.
§ 4
To-day Jeannette heard the familiar finger exercises as she neared the top of the long stair-flight of her old home: ta-ta-ta-ta-de-da-da-da-da—ta-ta-ta-ta-de-da-da-da-da, and as she noiselessly opened the back door kitchenward, her mother’s voice from the studio: “One-and-two-and-three-and-four-and....”
She took off her hat and gloves, laid them on her mother’s bed and went to peek in the cupboard; there was a piece of bakery pie and a few eggs. She decided to make an omelette and with the toasted crumpets and tea, a little jar of marmalade and the potato salad she had brought with her, she and her mother would lunch royally. It was ten minutes to twelve; the lesson would soon be over.
They lingered over their repast until nearly two. Mrs. Sturgis had lessons from four to six,—the after-school hours,—but until then she was free. She had had half a notion, she confessed, of going down to Union Square that afternoon to look at some new piano pieces for beginners at Schirmer’s. Jeannette told her she would go with her,—she wanted to get an alligator pear for Martin’s dinner,—but neither of them appeared inclined to terminate the little luncheon at the kitchen table. They had finished the crumpets, but there was still marmalade left, and Mrs. Sturgis produced some pieces of cold left-over toast with which to finish it.
She was full of news and her affairs. In the first place, Alice and Roy were going to Freeport on Long Island for the summer. They had found a very nice place where they could board for eighteen dollars a week,—oh, yes, both of them and the baby, too,—Roy was going to commute every day, and the Bronx flat was to be closed,—just turn the key in the door and leave it until they were ready to come back. Then there was great talk about the concert tour. Bellini, who had sailed only the day before yesterday for Italy, had thought Miss Elsa and Miss Cora had better study another winter before attempting it, but a most encouraging letter had been received from Montreal, and both the girls were eager to try the experiment. They were in doubt as to whether they should take a violinist with them or not; of course a violinist would be a drawing-card, but they would have his salary and all his expenses to pay, which would cut down the profits—if there were any! Jeannette’s mother did not think it was in the least necessary, but if they didn’t take one, Miss Elsa had said Mrs. Sturgis had better be prepared to do some solo numbers, and that meant she’d have to do some real hard practising as she hadn’t done anything like that for years! She did not know whether to work up the Mendelssohn Capricioso or the Chopin Fantaisie Impromptu; what did Jeannette think? Of course there was that Meditation....
But as her mother rambled on, Jeannette’s mind wandered. Her thoughts were with Martin. She wondered what he was doing at that moment; with whom he had lunched; how she could entertain him in the evenings and keep him from wanting to go out. He must have some friends whom she could invite to dinner. There was Beatrice Alexander, of course, and she had heard him speak pleasantly of Herbert Gibbs,—the younger of the two Gibbs brothers. He was married, she remembered; his wife had a baby and they lived somewhere down on Long Island. She herself would have liked to have asked Miss Holland, but she was hardly the type that would interest Martin. There was Tommy Livingston,—but Tommy was really too young. Her mind rested on Sandy MacGregor! He was a widower,—his wife had been dead for over a year,—she knew he would love to come to them, and Martin was sure to like him. The thought elated her: Sandy and Beatrice Alexander would make an excellent combination.
She accompanied her mother downtown in gay spirits, full of determination to put this plan immediately into effect.
§ 5
The dinner-party, when it took place, was not altogether a success; still it was far from being a failure. Sandy unquestionably had a good time, for he and Martin took a great liking to each other. Beatrice had proven the unfortunate element. She had always been diffident and the eye-glasses hopelessly disfigured her. Martin liked her because he knew her so well,—one had to know Beatrice to appreciate her,—but Sandy had been merely polite and amiable. He enjoyed Martin and Martin’s cocktails, however,—they had one or two before dinner,—and each time they raised their glasses, Sandy said: “Saloon!” which had amused Martin vastly. The dinner itself was delicious,—even Jeannette felt satisfied. The baked onions stuffed with minced ham,—Alice had suggested that and shown her how to do them,—had been enthusiastically praised, the chicken had been tender and the iced pudding, ordered at Henri’s, could not have been more delicious.