They all listened in silence to the Pilgrims’ Chorus, and Miss Frink watched Hugh’s face, noting that none of that stimulation which the nurse had described as the effect of music appeared upon it.
“Turn it off,” she said brusquely. “He doesn’t like that piece. We’ll try another.”
“Why, yes, I do,” said Hugh when quiet again reigned. “You make me feel deucedly ungrateful.”
“Don’t bother to be grateful, boy,” said Miss Frink imperturbably. “I want you to have what you like. I let the clerk pick out these records and they’re here on trial. Back goes Wagner. Perhaps you’re like the man who heard ‘Tannhäuser’ and said he thought Wagner had better have stuck to his sleeping-cars.”
“I’ll tell you, Miss Frink,” said Miss Damon in her demure voice. “You have the catalogue there, and I think, if you would let Mrs. Lumbard come up and make some selections—she seems to understand Mr. Stanwood’s taste—”
“Bright thought!” exclaimed Miss Frink. “Miss Damon, go over to her room and get her, will you?”
No sooner said than done; and, as soon as the nurse had disappeared, Hugh spoke: “Miss Damon has to leave this afternoon, Miss Frink.”
That lady faced him with a slight frown. “I don’t know about her having to,” she returned.
“Yes, a very sick woman has sent for her,” said Hugh. His voice suddenly burst from his control, “And I can’t stand it any longer!”