"Do play again, dear!" she said. "It gives us such pleasure."
Elizabeth, as her father knew, was conscious of little else than her "German Johnnies," when there was singing in her brain, and she sat down at once.
"Do you know this?" she said. "Quite short."
She touched the keys once and then again, as if to test the lightness of her fingers, and then broke into the Twelfth Etude of Chopin, letting the piano whisper—a privilege so seldom accorded to that belaboured instrument. Even Mrs. Hancock responded to it, and laid down her cards and spoke.
"What a delicious tune, my dear," she said. "Tum-ti-ti; tum-ti-ti!"
The tune was still hovering and poised. Elizabeth put her hands firmly down on a suspension and stopped.
"But what an abrupt end!" said Mrs. Hancock.
"Yes," said Elizabeth, turning round on the stool.
When Mrs. Hancock had had enough patience and conversation she secretly rang an electric bell which was fixed to the underside of her card-table, upon which Lind brought in a tray of glasses and soda-water, which was rightly regarded by her guests as a stirrup-cup. This signal occurred rather earlier than usual to-night, for it was likely that the two lovers would wish to say a few words to each other in the library before parting. This was made completely easy for them by Mrs. Hancock's suggestion that Edith would find Edward's hat and coat for him, as Lind no doubt had gone to bed—he had left the soda-water tray about three minutes before—and the two went out together.