He made no reply.
“She—your cousin—doesn’t play awfully well herself, does she? On her fiddle, I mean.”
“She has had some very good teaching, I believe.”
“Of course, she was miles better than I was,” Rose added with belated generosity. “Not that that’s saying much. I’m awfully out of practice.”
Ford made no reply at all, and Rose, in her desire for reassurance, found temerity to cross the length of the room and sit down beside Charlesbury.
He stood up, as she dropped into her armchair with the flouncing movement of a schoolgirl, but to her relief sat down again almost at once and looked at her with his kind, interested smile.
“I am sure you love music,” he said to her.
“Yes, I do. Not that you’d have thought so, from the row I made just now. I don’t know why I ever said I’d play her accompaniments. I’ve never accompanied a violin before, only songs.”
“You husband didn’t care for music, did he?” said Charlesbury, rather as though stating a fact.
“Not a bit. Did you know Jim?”