The little green bird opened one eye belligerently, and the feathers at the back of his neck ruffled.
"John, why should she tramp like that?"
"Go to her, honey, if you wish."
But Hilda's knock on the door was not answered.
Berta remained in her room all the following day. The maid reported to her mistress that the unwelcome guest spoke no words, not even a "thank you." She no longer walked the floor, however.
About eight o'clock that night she came unexpectedly into the living-room. Mathison was putting on a fresh log. Hilda was in the music-room, playing Rachmaninoff's surging "Prelude."
"I was cold," said Berta, unemotionally.
Mathison drew up a chair for her, rather clumsily. She sent him a wry little smile as she sat down, spreading her fingers. After a while she raised her head attentively. She was listening to the music. She held this attitude for several minutes, then propped her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her palms. Hilda played on, Chopin, Grieg, Rubinstein. Stonily Berta stared into the fire.