“Tell him that Miss Desmond is ready to go home.”
“Yes, sahib.” The curtains fell.
“I prefer to go home alone, Mr Brood,” said Lydia, her eyes flashing. “Why did you send———”
“And why not?” he demanded harshly. She winced, and he was at once sorry. “Forgive me. I am tired and—a bit nervous. And you, too, are tired. You've been working too steadily at this miserable job, my dear child. Thank Heaven, it will soon be over. Pray sit down. Frederic will soon be here.”
“I am not tired,” she protested stubbornly. “I love the work. You don't know how proud I shall be when it comes out, and—and I realise that I helped in its making. No one has ever been in a position to tell the story of Tibet as you have told it, Mr Brood. Those chapters will make history. I———”
“Your poor father's share in those explorations is what really makes the work valuable, my dear. Without his notes and letters I should have been feeble indeed.” He looked at his watch. “They were at the concert, you know—the Hungarian orchestra. A recent importation, 'Tzigane's' music. Gipsies.” His sentences as well as his thoughts were staccato, disconnected.
Lydia turned very cold. She dreaded the scene that now seemed unavoidable. Frederic would come in response to his father's command, and then———
Someone began to play upon the piano downstairs. She knew, and he knew, that it was Frederic who played. For a long time they listened. The air, no doubt, was one he had heard during the evening, a soft, sensuous waltz that she had never heard before. The girl's eyes were upon Brood's face. It was like a graven image.
“God!” fell from his stiff lips. Suddenly he turned upon the girl. “Do you know what he is playing?”
“No,” she said, scarcely above a whisper.