“Yes,” he murmured in a muffled tone, bending and kissing the slender fingers in his grasp.
She stood at the entrance to the music-room until she heard the hall-door close. Then she turned, and seated herself at the piano. It was here that Percy-Bartlett found her, idly weaving strange melodies as the night grew old.
“You look pale and tired, dear,” he said gently, as he bent and kissed her colorless cheek. “I did not think that you would wait up.”
“Is it late?” she asked wearily. “I had lost all track of time.”
“I shall be very glad,” remarked her husband, seating himself and lighting a cigar, “when my affairs and the nation’s are so arranged that I won’t be obliged to talk business at night. Has no one been in, Harriet?”
“Yes,” she answered in a careless tone, and striking a few soft chords on the instrument; “Mr. Stoughton called, and stayed an hour or so.”
Percy-Bartlett flicked the ashes from his cigar impatiently. He was silent for some time, firmly suppressing any feeling of annoyance that her words had caused.
“You find the boy interesting?” he asked coldly.
She looked at him calmly an instant, and then said indifferently,—
“Well—I prefer him to solitude, at least.”