“But he does like music,” said Yvonne, her voice a little huskier than usual. “In Paris we attended the opera, the concerts. I am sure he likes music.”
“I fancy it must have been my fault, then,” said Frederic wryly. “I was pretty bad at it in those days.”
“He will not let you have a piano in the house?”
“I should say not!”
She gave them a queer little smile. “We shall see,” she said, and that was all.
“I say, it would be great if you could get him to——”
“I am sure he would like Frederic's music now, Mrs Brood,” Lydia broke in eagerly.
“What do you play—what do you like best, Frederic?” inquired Yvonne.
“Oh, those wonderful little Hungarian things most of all; the plaintive little melodies——”
He stopped as she began to hum lightly the strains of one of Ziehrer's jaunty waltzes.