Rosamund and Frances sat in the shadow and held one another’s hands.
Presently Hazel joined them and said very low indeed:
“Do you like it?”
“It is very kind of Cousin Bertha,” gravely returned Rosamund.
“I don’t much like it when mother plays. I would rather play myself,” said Hazel. “There’s a person at Porthlew called Mrs. Severing who plays beautifully. She has published a lot of music—songs and things.”
“Shall we ever see her?” asked Frances.
“Oh yes, she often comes here. She is mother’s greatest friend. We’ll make her play really nice things.”
“Don’t you like Cousin Bertha’s things that she plays? I do,” said Frances, rather shocked.
“Rosamund doesn’t,” shrewdly returned Hazel. But Rosamund remained silent, partly from courtesy, and partly because she knew that she would not be able to keep the tumult of misery that was choking her out of her voice.
The memory of Wye Valley days, already remote, was gripping her unendurably. Her emotions, infinitely stronger than her undeveloped personality, were always strung to breaking pitch at the appeal made to them by music. For although it was true that she had very little ear, and that her fingers were devoid of all skill, the Slavonic tradition and the Slavonic passion were in her blood, and to such as these, music is a doorway better left secure.