“Have I? I do sing sometimes.”
“Sings?” said George. “I should think so. The family’s a concert party. Everything from the human voice to a piccolo.”
They finished the rubber and adjourned to the parlor, where Mrs. Fourmy drew sweet buzzing notes from the little old piano that seemed to have come into the world at the same time as herself and to have shared her experience. She knew all its tricks and could dodge its defects, and when she played faded songs that had had their day, and Elsie sang them, René was melted into a mood of loving kindness and was full of gratitude to the two women, and wished only for their happiness—an eternity of such happiness as they were giving him now.
He kissed Elsie when she said good-by. She lived only a few streets away, and George asked him to sit up for him. When the couple were gone:
“Well?” said Mrs. Fourmy, more to the fireplace than to her son.
“She’s too good for George.” René thought with dislike of his brother, sitting with his eyes half-closed, taking a too voluptuous delight in the music and showing a too proprietary pride in the singer.
“She suits him,” rejoined his mother. “George wants to settle down. So does she. Most people are like that. They settle down, and they think nothing else can happen to them. You’re not like that.”
“I don’t know. To settle down——”
“Love songs. You think it’s all love songs. They think it’s all love songs, or they try to. Warm and comfortable. Oh, but I’ve seen it too often.”