“It’s a rather nice view,” she said, politely.
“Mother, look here, darling! I want you to help me to get up something for Christmas, will you?”
“Of course I will! What had you thought of?”
“I don’t know.... Something nice and human.... You and Edna and Bertie.... Something like old times.... How’s Father?”
“Very well....”
“Does he ever mention my name? Lord! Isn’t it romantic? A young bride, cut off by her father.... I wish there were someone to appreciate the situation—and me.”
“I’m sure Alfred appreciates you, Andrée!”
“Well, he doesn’t. He doesn’t care about my music, and that’s me. He’s awfully fond of me, I know that, but he doesn’t think I’m really any more important than all the other young females of twenty with black hair. My ‘group,’ he’d call it. I wish he’d think a little more about me, and less about social justice. I’m sick of it!”
“My dear!”
“I am! Not sick of him, but just of his talking. Just imagine! When I’ve been playing extra well, I sometimes ask if I’ve been disturbing him—hoping he’ll say he liked it. But what do you suppose he does say? ‘Not a bit! I don’t hear it at all when my mind’s concentrated on my work.’ He’s writing some sort of silly book, you know.”