“Skill is one thing; the manner of man is another—with women.”
“That is worth considering—or adding to the curriculum,” observed Kemp, turning his steady, quiet gaze upon Arnold.
Ruth noticed that the two men had taken the same position,—vis—vis to each other in their respective easy-chairs, their heads thrown back upon the cushions, their arms resting on the chair-arms. Something in Louis’s veiled eyes caused her to interpose.
“Will you play, Louis?” she asked.
“Not to-night, ma cousine,” he replied, glancing at her from lowered lids.
“It is not optional with you to-night, Louis,” she insisted playfully, rising; “we—desire you to play.”
“Or be punished for treason? Has your Majesty any other behest?”
“No; I shall even turn the leaves for you.”
“The leaves of what,—memory? I’ll play by rote.”
He strolled over to the piano and sat down. He struck a few random chords, some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung them together and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that faded into a bird-like hallelujah,—swelling now into grandeur, then fainting into sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering that when the closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruth drew a long sigh with the last lingering vibrations.