“I am blunt, Adèle. I don’t have time for beating about the bush, and your reading makes me nervous. It’s all vowels.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Susanna,” returned the young woman meekly. “I do so wish I could do something for you—the little while I’m here.” The guest was always referring to the brevity of her visit, but weeks were slipping by. “Do you care for music?”
“Yes, moderately,” said Miss Frink carelessly. “There’s a Steinway grand down in the drawing-room. I don’t know when it has been touched.”
“I noticed that and was so tempted, but I didn’t want to play without your permission.”
“Oh, go ahead any evening. I don’t want a racket in the daytime.”
So that very evening Adèle, in the simple black georgette gown which made her white throat and arms dazzling, sat down at the piano in the empty drawing-room and had the triumph of seeing Miss Frink come through the portières in evident surprise, and sit down with folded hands to listen to the finished runs that were purling across the neglected keys.
It was two weeks after Adèle’s arrival that Rex and Regina ran away; and, in the excitement of Hugh’s illness, Mrs. Lumbard had sufficient adroitness not to risk irritating Miss Frink’s rasped nerves. The piano was closed and she effaced herself as much as possible.
The secretary’s exasperation at the intrusion of the young hero beneath their roof amused her. He confided to her the paralyzing proof of Miss Frink’s indulgence in the matter of the cigarettes.