“I hope he’ll come,” she said. “He’s very nice and he’s awf—very interested in Cecil.”
“He knew Cecil’s father many years ago, and in fact he has known all of us for many years—ever since he first came down here from London. I believe he’s very highly thought of in his profession. A clever man, Ford calls him.”
She was complacently secure that Ford’s judgment must be infallible, but in this instance Rose felt no desire to dispute it.
“Won’t you look through my pieces, Mrs. Aviolet?” Diana’s voice inquired behind her.
The girl had returned with her violin-case and a neat pile of music.
She opened the grand piano that Rose had never dared to touch, as she spoke. Her pieces, as she had called them, were thoroughly deserving of the name. There was Thomé’s “Simple Aveu” and somebody’s “Variations in F,” and some Operatic Selections, and a good deal of French music.
Already Rose was regretting the rash impulse that had moved her to volunteer the accompaniments.
“I’m more used to songs than to violin pieces,” she answered nervously.
“We’ll have a practice together to-morrow morning, before we perform in public,” Diana good-naturedly suggested.
But when the men came into the drawing-room, the youth Toby was clamorous for some music, and Sir Thomas politely seconded his urgent requests.