“I am not sure——” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”
“Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly.
“Why—no!” she said, blushing.
“Then stay to supper—will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr. Nickie Ben reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs. Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them good-night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared the supper.
“Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr. Saxton to Lettie, beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great.
“What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly, but with a deprecating laugh at the end.
“I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said.
“When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.
“Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.”
George thought about it, and he laughed also.