Owen Rivers looked at her with a singular expression, half-admiring, half-tenderly, pitying—as one might look at a child whose innocent candour is as yet "unspotted from the world."
"I suppose you know all the people here," said May, looking round on the assembly.
"I know who they are, most of them."
"That gentleman who was standing by himself at the window—the tall gentleman—who is he?"
"Mr. Jawler, a great musical critic."
"And the pleasant-faced man who seemed so delighted with the playing?"
"Mr. Sweeting. He is an enthusiastic admirer and patron of young Cleveland Turner, the pianist: a very kindly, amiable, courteous gentleman, with much money and leisure, as I am told."
"That stout lady talking to Miss Piper seems to be musical also?"
"That is Lady Moppett: a very good sort of woman, I dare say, but fanatical. She would bowstring all us dogs of Christians who believe in melody."
"And who is that disagreeable little man in the corner?"