The eyes of David Joslin, roaming around the little apartment, spied Polly’s violin resting upon the dresser-top.
“Ye play the violin, Ma’am,” said he. “Ye’re the first womern I ever knew in all my life who could. I reckon ye studied?”
“Years,” said she simply. “It cost me a lot of money—and at that they don’t like the best things I do. You can play?”—eagerly.
“Only a few of the mounting tunes—ballets such as our folks teached us years ago.”
“Ballads? You mean the folk songs?”
“Maybe. I could play ‘Barbara Allen.’ They tolt me it was Scotch.”
“The Scotch have pretty melodies sometimes,” said Polly Pendleton judicially. Then she smiled frankly. “You see, I’m half Irish myself—and half French.”
“What?” David Joslin sat up suddenly and looked at her straight. “Ma’am, my own granny was half Irish and half French. There wasn’t nuvver a womern in all the mountings like her. That maybe accounts fer a heap of things. My granny loves to sing and dance. She’s over ninety year old.”
The unweighed flattery of his tone was a thing to be valued. She extended to him the instrument and bow.