“I expect I am,” he said quietly.
She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked:
“We haven't got any candles for the Christmas tree—shall you buy some, because mother isn't going out?”
“Candles!” he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo.
“Yes—shall you buy us some, Father? Shall you?”
“Candles!” he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a few piercing, preparatory notes.
“Yes, little Christmas-tree candles—blue ones and red ones, in boxes—Shall you, Father?”
“We'll see—if I see any—”
“But SHALL you?” she insisted desperately. She wisely mistrusted his vagueness.
But he was looking unheeding at the music. Then suddenly the piccolo broke forth, wild, shrill, brilliant. He was playing Mozart. The child's face went pale with anger at the sound. She turned, and went out, closing both doors behind her to shut out the noise.