Allport looked at her, and was sad.
When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. She would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply.
Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At half past ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was studying a cookery-book.
“You, too, at the midnight lamp!” exclaimed MacWhirter politely.
“Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for tomorrow,” Beatrice replied.
“We shall feel hopelessly in debt if you look after us so well,” smiled the young man ironically.
“I must look after you,” said Beatrice.
“You do—wonderfully. I feel that we owe you large debts of gratitude.” The meals were generally late, and something was always wrong.
“Because I scan a list of puddings?” smiled Beatrice uneasily.
“For the puddings themselves, and all your good things. The piano, for instance. That was very nice indeed.” He bowed to her.