“But she is probably—very good—at teaching.” Billy hesitated a little.
“She is; very good. She has the best of recommendations.” A little proudly Mrs. Greggory gave the names of two Boston pianists—names that would carry weight anywhere.
Unconsciously Billy relaxed. She did not know until that moment how she had worried for fear she could not, conscientiously, recommend this Alice Greggory.
“Of course,” resumed the mother, “Alice's pupils are few, and they pay low prices; but she is gaining. She goes to the houses, of course. She herself practises two hours a day at a house up on Pinckney Street. She gives lessons to a little girl in return.”
“I see,” nodded Billy, brightly; “and I've been thinking, Mrs. Greggory—maybe I know of some pupils she could get. I have a friend who has just given hers up, owing to her marriage. Sometime, soon, I'm going to talk to your daughter, if I may, and—”
“And here she is right now,” interposed Mrs. Greggory, as the door opened under a hurried hand.
Billy flushed and bit her lip. She was disturbed and disappointed. She did not particularly wish to see Alice Greggory just then. She wished even less to see her when she noted the swift change that came to the girl's face at sight of herself.
“Oh! Why-good morning, Miss Neilson,” murmured Miss Greggory with a smile so forced that her mother hurriedly looked to the azalea in search of a possible peacemaker.
“My dear, see,” she stammered, “what Miss Neilson has brought me. And it's so full of blossoms, too! And she says it'll remain so for a long, long time—if we'll only keep it wet.”
Alice Greggory murmured a low something—a something that she tried, evidently, very hard to make politely appropriate and appreciative. Yet her manner, as she took off her hat and coat and sat down, so plainly said: “You are very kind, of course, but I wish you would keep yourself and your plants at home!” that Mrs. Greggory began a hurried apology, much as if the words had indeed been spoken.