Had Damaris been the escort of the most talked-about young man in Farrandale, she would have paraded him: taken him by the most populous ways. Millicent had mapped out a semi-rural route, longer to be sure, but one in which few people would see them and say that Millicent Duane was out walking with Miss Frink’s young man.
“Mrs. Lumbard worked among us doughboys in France,” said Hugh, sensing an iciness in the atmosphere.
“I heard her say so yesterday,” returned Millicent, eyes ahead.
“She plays like a house afire,” said Hugh, “and she has to earn her living. Do you believe she could make a go of it teaching piano here?”
“I don’t know why not?” returned the girl civilly.
“Anyway, Miss Frink is going to let her give a recital in her house and let the people hear her. Will you help boom it?”
“I’m afraid I’m a person of no influence, Mr. Stanwood.”
Hugh regarded the persistent profile, a very grave profile with a slightly tilted nose.
“Mr. Ogden says you had a grouch yesterday,” he said good-humoredly. “Is this a hang-over?”