“Yes, do,” chimed in Miss Tillie.
And he promised that he would.
He redeemed his promise about a week later. Tillie played to him to his heart's content, and afterward she amused him with her conversation.
On his way home, “She's a good little thing,” he soliloquized; “thoroughly well-meaning and kind—hearted. Crude, of course, and uncultivated; but a fellow must make allowances for that sort of thing. She has plenty of mother-wit; and her dash—her abundance of animal spirits—it—it's positively stimulating. Then she plays—well, her playing is marvelous, masterly—such execution—such expression—really, no praise could do justice to her playing. And she's not at all bad-looking, either.”
He called pretty soon again; and after that he got into the habit of calling regularly at frequent intervals. He was invariably welcomed with exceeding warmth, and treated with a certain deference that no doubt tickled his vanity. Besides, a bay-window overlooking the East River is a pleasant place to spend a hot summer's night. And Tillie's music, it was worth traveling miles to hear.
In his hours of solitude he led a very useless and meaningless existence. He did not paint much; and when he did, his occupation proved neither profitable nor enjoyable. He read a good many light novels; he spent a good deal of time seated at his studio window, gazing off across the tree-tops, and lapsing into a state of mental vacuity, that approached as near to total unconsciousness as is compatible with sustained animation. He even went to the theater now and then, escorting Tillie and her mother. To Mrs. Morgenthau he had taken a genuine liking. There was something so hearty and vigorous about her, something almost manly. His palate was dulled. He craved strong flavors.
“They're going to the country before long, aren't they?” the rabbi asked one day.
“Yes; the first week in July.”
“Well, don't you think we ought to have them to dinner, before they go?”
“That wouldn't be a bad idea,” confessed Elias.