Presently she arose to go. No, she could not wait for Mrs Desmond's return.
“It is charming here, Lydia,” she said, surveying the little sitting-room with eyes that sought the window again and again in furtive darts. “Frederic must bring me here often. We shall have cosy times here, we three. It is so convenient, too, for you, my dear. You have only to walk around the corner, and there you are—at your place of business, as the men would say.”
Lydia was to continue as Brood's amanuensis. He would not listen to any other arrangement.
“Oh, I do hope you will come, Mrs Brood!” cried the girl earnestly. “My piano will be here to-morrow, and you shall hear Frederic play. He is really wonderful.”
“I'm the rankest duffer going, Yvonne,” broke in Frederic, but his eyes were alight with pleasure.
“You play?” asked Mrs Brood, regarding him rather fixedly.
“He disappears for hours at a time,” said Lydia, speaking for him, “and comes home humming fragments from—oh, but I am not supposed to tell! Forgive me, Frederic. Dear me! What have I done?” She was plainly distressed.
“No harm in telling Yvonne,” said he, but uneasily. “You see, it's this way: father doesn't like the idea of my going in for music. He is really very much opposed to it. So I've been sort of stealing a march on him—going up to a chum's apartment and banging away to my heart's content. It's rather fun, too, doing it on the sly. Of course, if father heard of it he'd—he'd—well, he'd be nasty about it, that's all.”
“Nasty?”
“He got rid of our own piano a long time ago, just because he doesn't like music.”