“Of course I want rugs,” interrupted Cyril, irritably. “I want them everywhere except in my own especial den. You don't suppose I want to hear other people clattering over bare floors all day, do you?”
“Of course not!” Bertram's face was preternaturally grave as he turned to the little music teacher. “I hope, Miss Marie, that you wear rubber heels on your shoes,” he observed solicitously.
Even Cyril laughed at this, though all he said was:
“Come, come, I got you up here to look at the rug.”
Bertram, however, was not to be silenced.
“And another thing, Miss Marie,” he resumed, with the air of a true and tried adviser. “Just let me give you a pointer. I've lived with your future husband a good many years, and I know what I'm talking about.”
“Bertram, be still,” growled Cyril.
Bertram refused to be still.
“Whenever you want to know anything about Cyril, listen to his playing. For instance: if, after dinner, you hear a dreamy waltz or a sleepy nocturne, you may know that all is well. But if on your ears there falls anything like a dirge, or the wail of a lost spirit gone mad, better look to your soup and see if it hasn't been scorched, or taste of your pudding and see if you didn't put in salt instead of sugar.”
“Bertram, will you be still?” cut in Cyril, testily, again.