"Yes. I understand there is a piano in the little Casino that was pointed out to me. I understand—eh, Barrison?"
Philip nodded. "Yes, they have allowed me to engage an hour a day on that piano for a while, for some work we have to do."
Diana's face lighted beautifully. "And may one—may one sit on the piazza?" she asked beseechingly.
"I should advise one not to," said Philip, "unless one has been inoculated for strong language."
"I should not in the least mind what you said."
"But you would what Barney says, at times."
"The verdure about the hall is free," said Diana doubtfully.
"Yes, if you don't mind a baseball in the eye once in a while. That is where the boys do congregate."
"He's a most ungrateful ass—Barrison," said Barney warmly. "Of course you shall sit on the piazza if you care about it. I promise to restrain my penchant for calling him pet names in private. I have to do it, you see, to strike a balance. At performances, who so meek as the accompanist! Barrison stands there, dolled up in his dress-clothes, probably a white carnation in his buttonhole; the women down front gazing at him and ruining their best gloves. I gaze at him, too,"—Kelly looked up with meek worship,—"like a flower at the sun, waiting for the sultan to throw the handkerchief, or, in other words, give me a careless nod, indicating that I may come to life. At last he does so, and I begin to play—subserviently, unostentatiously. Very few in the house know that I am there. He reaches his climax, he finishes with a pianissimo that curls around all the women's hearts, draws them out and strings them on a wire before him. Then the applause bursts forth. He bows over and over again, until he looks like a blond mandarin, and I rise, but nobody knows it, and when he has passed me on his way off the stage, I come to heel like a well-trained dog, and—there we are!"