“She made music for us over there, Miss Frink. I ought to have known it when I heard her yesterday. Nobody can hit the box quite like Ally.”
“Why do you call her Ally?” Miss Frink found voice to ask.
“Short for Albino,” laughed Hugh. “Of course, Ally.”
Miss Frink’s heart quickened. “In a single night.” The sad statement recurred to her at once; but it was characteristic that she postponed this consideration.
“Here is another chance for you to be useful, Adèle,” she said. “Take this catalogue over to Mr. Stanwood and between you make out a list of his preferences. Give me three numbers right away.—No, don’t either of you say, ‘Do you remember,’ until I’ve got those numbers. I suppose you can find some of the tunes you had over in France.”
“I don’t want one of them,” said Hugh emphatically. “Not much. That thing you played yesterday, Ally.”
“Oh, yes, that will be here, and other selections from the same opera.”
Meanwhile Miss Frink was exchanging words with Miss Damon, and, as the nurse left to get into her street dress, Miss Frink went to the phone and called a number.
“Is this you, Millicent? This is Miss Frink. Hold the wire. Now, then, Adèle?”