"Send her up all the old poetry books you can find," jeered Sophie. "Personally, I like a jolly good yellow-back."
Mr. Bramham looked extremely bored by this priceless piece of information, and more so still when she returned immediately to the subject of the men she was anxious to meet. Poppy got up and, opening the piano, began to play a little gay air to which she whistled softly; she never sang.
"I'm just dying to know him," said Sophie ardently. "He looks as though he has committed every sin you ever heard of. And how did he get that fearful scar right across his face? Vitriol?"
The little air at the piano stopped suddenly.
"I really couldn't tell you. He is not communicative on the subject," said Bramham drily. "But perhaps he will unfold to you—do go on playing, Miss Chard!"
He adored music, and had an excellent view of an extraordinarily pretty pair of ankles under the music-stool.
Poppy complied, but she changed the air to something savage that made Bramham think of a Zulu war-chant.
"Well, I shall certainly ask him when I meet him. I wonder you haven't been able to find out! He lives with you, doesn't he?"
"He is staying with me, at present, yes." Bramham's tone was full of weariness.
"And that dark, strange Irishman everyone is talking about—Carson—he is staying with you, too, isn't he?"