“They would like that,” observed her host, “above everything.”
“Father keeps talking about getting one of those player-pianos, but Mother says they are so new you can’t tell what they are going to be. She says they may get to be too common.”
Rankin looked at her hard. “Would you like one?” He asked this trivial question with a singular emphasis.
“Why, I haven’t really thought,” said Lydia, considering the matter.
The man looked oddly anxious for her answer.
Finally, “Why, it depends on how much music you can make with them. If they are really good, I should want one, of course.”
Rankin smiled, drew a long breath, and fell sober again as if at a sudden thought.
“I don’t see any oil-stove,” said the girl, skeptically, looking about her.
“Oh, I have a regular kitchen. It’s there,” he nodded back of him; “and two rooms beside for me and for Dr. Melton or my Germans, or some of my other freak friends when they stay too long and miss the last trolley in to town. Oh, I have lots of room.”
“It looks really rather nice, now I’m here and all,” Lydia vaguely approved; “though I don’t see why you couldn’t have gone on more like other folks and just changed some things—not been so awfully queer!”