"He was very angry," she answered. "Quite cross; I'm sure I don't know why."
Brian sighed as he released her hands, and was about to reply when the visitor's bell sounded, they heard the servant answer it, and then someone was taken upstairs to Mr. Frettlby's study.
When the footman came in to light the gas, Madge asked who it was that had come to the door.
"I don't know, miss," he answered; "he said he wanted to see Mr. Frettlby particularly, so I took him up to the study."
"But I thought that papa said he was not to be disturbed?"
"Yes, miss, but the gentleman had an appointment with him."
"Poor papa," sighed Madge, turning again to the piano. "He has always got such a lot to do."
Left to themselves, Madge began playing Waldteufel's last new valse, a dreamy, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian, lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang a gay little French song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mocking refrain, which made Brian laugh.
"A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and coming over to the piano. "We certainly can't approach the French in writing these airy trifles."
"They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge, running her fingers over the keys; "they mean nothing."