“Calliope, she wants to know who is playing?”
“A pupil of hers—Andromache Karapolos,” said Calliope.
Dr. Jarovisky stumbled back in the same awkward and nervous fashion, and said, excitedly:
“You will be charmed, I am sure, Mademoiselle, to learn that the young lady who is delighting us all is a pupil of yours.”
“A pupil of mine, sir?” interrogated Photini, imperiously.
“Mais, oui, ja, ja, Ναἱ,” cried Dr. Jarovisky, in his fright exploding into a multiplicity of tongues. “A Desposine Andromache Karapolos,” and he smiled pleadingly.
“Oh, indeed,” said Photini, with that desperate calm of hers that invariably preluded a thunderstorm.
She rose, and followed by her shaken host, walked slowly down the room with the face of a sphinx. When she came near the piano, Rudolph looked up, saw her, bowed and smiled in anxious conciliation. She neither returned his bow nor his smile, but came behind Andromache, and deliberately dealt that inoffensive maiden a sound box on the ear.
“May I ask who gave you leave to murder Rubinstein for the benefit of a lot of idiots worse than yourself?” she cried.
Pressing her palm to the outraged cheek, now crimson from the blow, Andromache turned round with a face held between indignation and shocked fear. Her tongue refused to give voice to the piteous words that rushed to it, and tears of wounded pride and shame drowned the March violets.