“You mustn’t be romantic, my dear! But, if you are romantic, whom do you blame?”
“The door was open,” said Alison. “I didn’t know——”
Kit’s face got red, but Mrs. Austin’s eyes twinkled.
“In the circumstances, I suppose you must know; but Bob must not—I expect you think it plain? Well, although Kit is very noble, he is not my lover; I am content with Bob. Perhaps you will satisfy Alison’s curiosity, Kit?”
Kit said nothing. To proclaim his nobility was not an attractive part, and Mrs. Austin went on: “Since Kit is modest, I’ll try to enlighten you.”
She did so, and when she stopped Alison gave Kit an embarrassed glance. Kit’s heart beat, for although she blushed and hesitated, he thought her look was proud.
“You could not take another line,” she said. “The post is Austin’s.”
“Of course,” said Kit. “All the same, you mustn’t talk to Bob about it. When I get back I’ll speak to Wheeler, and in the meantime we have had enough. I have brought my fiddle. Let’s try the sonata.”
Alison went to the piano and Kit tuned his violin. To play was some relief. His high hopes had vanished, and before long he might be forced to take the road and play for his supper. Then he was bothered by his emotions when Alison came in. For all that, he concentrated on the awkward rhythm, and after a time the music carried him away. When they stopped Mrs. Austin looked up.
“Thank you,” she said with a twinkle. “You played up nobly.” Then she turned to Alison. “Kit does play up. A hard part doesn’t daunt him; but perhaps you know.”