Marilyn, throwing aside her hat and appearing in the front door called pleasantly to the two outside:
“Well, I'm ready for the music. You can come in when you wish.”
They sauntered in presently, but Marilyn was already at the piano playing softly a bit from the Angel Chorus, a snatch of Handel's Largo, a Chopin Nocturne, one of Mendelssohn's songs without words. The two came in hilariously, the young man pretending to lean heavily on the girl, and finding much occasion to hold her hands, a performance to which she seemed to be not at all averse. They came and stood beside the piano.
“Now,” said Opal gaily, when Marilyn came to the end of another Nocturne: “That's enough gloom. Give us a little jazz and Laurie and I'll dance awhile.”
Marilyn let her hands fall with a soft crash on the keys and looked up. Then her face broke up into a smile, as if she had put aside an unpleasant thought and determined to be friendly:
“I'm sorry,” she said firmly, “We don't play jazz, my piano and I. I never learned to love it, and besides I'm tired. I've been playing all day you know. You will excuse anything more I'm sure. And it's getting late for Sabbath Valley. Did you have any plans for to-night?”
Opal stared, but Marilyn stared back pleasantly, and Laurie watched them both.
“Why, no, not exactly,” drawled Opal, “I thought Laurie would be hospitable enough to look me up a place. Where is your best hotel? Is it possible at all?”
“We haven't a sign of a hotel,” said Marilyn smiling.
“Oh, horrors, nothing but a boarding house I suppose. Is it far away?”