“How does it go, Freddy—the thing you were playing before breakfast?” She was trying to pick up the elusive air. “It is such a fascinating, adorable thing. Is this right?”
He looked at his watch. The few bars she had mastered in her eagerness fell upon inattentive ears at first. But she persisted. He came over and stood beside her. His long, slim fingers joined hers on the keyboard, and the sensuous strains of the waltz responded to his touch. He smiled patiently as she struggled to repeat what he had played. The fever of the thing took hold of him at last, as she had known it would. Leaning over her shoulder, his cheek quite close to hers, he played. Her hands dropped into her lap.
She retained her seat on the bench. Her cunning brain told her that it would be a mistake to relinquish her place at the keyboard. He would play it through a time or two, mechanically perhaps, and then his interest would be gone. He would have gratified her simple request, and that would have been the end. She led him on by interrupting time and again in her eagerness to grasp the lesson he was giving. Finally she moved over on the bench, and he sat down beside her. He was absorbed in the undertaking. His brow cleared. His smile was a happy, eager one.
“It's a tricky thing, Lyddy,” he said enthusiastically, “but you'll get it. Now listen.”
For an hour they sat there, master and pupil, sweetheart and lover. The fear was less in the heart of one when, tiring at last, the other contentedly abandoned the rôle of taskmaster and threw himself upon the couch, remarking, as he stretched himself in luxurious ease:
“I like this, Lyddy. I wish you didn't have to go over there and dig away at that confounded journal. I like this so well that, 'pon my soul, I'd enjoy loafing here with you the whole day long.”
Her heart leaped. “You shall have your wish, Freddy,” she said, barely able to conceal the note of eagerness in her voice. “I am not going to work to-day. I—my head, you know. Mother telephoned to Mr Brood this morning before you were up.”
“You're going to loaf?” he cried gladly. “Bully! And I may stay? But, gee, I forgot your headache. It will———” He was staring up from the couch when she hastily broke in, shaking her head vigorously.
“Lie still. My head is much better. I want you to stay, dear. I—I want to have you all to myself again. Oh, it will be so good—so good to while away an idle day with you!”
She was standing beside the couch. He reached forth and took her hand in his, laying it against his lips.