If he could only tell his father and mother now about Henry Faversham and all the things that he had said! He must make them see that music was the breath of life to him; that he must be a musician, could be nothing else.
But he would not make them try to see now. His mother's features were too tense, her disapproval too evident, his own voice too tremulous. He would stay at home in the early part of the evening and explain to them, persuade them. Now he must find hungrier ears than theirs.
As Richard pushed back his chair, Mrs. Lister's eyes sought her husband's, and thus prompted, he asked his son, a little unwillingly, where he was going.
"I am going to Miss Thomasina's."
"And after that?" Mrs. Lister was not quite sure whether she had asked the question, or whether he had announced his plans in defiance.
"Afterwards I am going to play duets with Eleanor Bent." He did not mean to say exactly that. In both him and his mother forces were operating which carried them farther along the path appointed than either had any intention of proceeding. Here, to Richard, was another subject upon which there could be no arguing.
"Eleanor Bent plays very well, and she has the finest piano in Waltonville, the only piano really, except Miss Thomasina's. It is a young and strong piano"—Richard smiled pleasantly—"without a tin mandolin inside it like the Scotts'. I wish you could hear it, mother."
He waited for a second for an answer, but no answer came. Into his face rushed a flood of brilliant color. Cora Scott had never made her case plainer, never betrayed herself more helplessly. He turned and went out of the room and upstairs quickly.
When he came down, Dr. Lister called him into the study.
"Richard, you have caused your mother and me very grave anxiety."