Edgar was silent, continuing to busy himself with his tie. He knew his stepmother too well to believe that she had risen with the lark to felicitate him on his last venture. He took up the ivory military brushes she had given him and began to use them vigorously. He was still smarting from the scene of the night before and he braced himself for a homily on the subject of his music bill.
"I've never believed in thwarting a child's bent," said Mrs. Fabian, flicking the ashes from a chair to make it fit to sit upon. "I said to Philip Sidney's mother, 'let him paint.' I said to your father last night when I heard all this, 'let Edgar sing.'"
Mrs. Fabian paused to allow her breadth of view to sink in. Edgar glanced around at her sulkily, from his mirror, and then looked back again.
"Now, you have no taste for commercial life, dear, why waste more time in it at present until you see what the artistic line holds for you?"
Edgar glanced back at the speaker again quickly. What was the "nigger in the fence"? Her face looked innocently out at him from a becoming boudoir cap.
"And I suggested to your father that he let your vacation start earlier and that you come with us to the island next Wednesday. You are going to work for a time anyway without your teacher, and this hot atmosphere must be so relaxing to the throat. There it is pure and bracing and you can lay out your course of study and be undisturbed."
Edgar regarded the speaker with some interest now, but still questioning.
"Father thinks, then, we could close the house and he would live at the club."
Edgar tossed his head, raised his eyebrows, and proceeded to put on his coat.
"You want to close the house. That's it," he said.