Mr Holiday sniggered.
“Oh, well, if it’s nothing particular and private—” said Mr Holiday, and with that he leaped over the window-sill and went to join them.
“Curst fool!” muttered Mr Allport. “I beg your pardon,” he added swiftly to Vera.
“Have you ever noticed, Mr Holiday,” asked Vera, as if very friendly, “how awfully tantalizing these flowers are? They won’t open while you’re looking.”
“No,” sniggered he, I don’t blame ’em. Why should they give themselves away any more than you do? You won’t open while you’re watched.” He nudged Allport facetiously with his elbow.
After supper, which was late and badly served, the young men were in poor spirits. Mr MacWhirter retired to read. Mr Holiday sat picking his teeth; Mr. Allport begged Vera to play the piano.
“Oh, the piano is not my instrument; mine was the violin, but I do not play now,” she replied.
“But you will begin again,” pleaded Mr. Allport.
“No, never!” she said decisively. Allport looked at her closely. The family tragedy had something to do with her decision, he was sure. He watched her interestedly.
“Mother used to play—” she began.