“We hope so,” he returned.
“He doesn’t know anything about it,” I said in an effort to console.
“Oh, doesn’t he!” she answered bitterly. “It’s his business.”
“I’m a speculator in voices,” he said, “and our handsome friend Lizzie here has been an investment that, I’m beginning to fear, won’t pay any dividends.”
He laughed and looked at her with what seemed to me a quite satanic pleasure in his tormenting.
I could think of nothing to say, bewildered by the strange pair. Miss Harris had gathered up her belongings and moved to the door with a spiritless step.
“Good night,” she said, glancing at me as if I was a chair that had temporarily supported her weight in a trying moment.
“Good night,” said Mr. Masters cheerfully. “Some day go up and hear Lizzie sing and see if you can find the soul in the sound.”
He gave a wave with his hat and followed her down the hall.
I shut the door, and am not ashamed to confess, leaned upon it listening. I wanted to hear her attack him on the lower flight. But their footsteps died away in silence.