The Spaniard opened the music-book and indicated the page. Agatha dashed at it with characteristic confidence, and the voice of the violin came singing softly into the melody. It was a better performance than the last. Agatha’s playing was much less correct, but as she went on she forgot herself, and she put something into the accompaniment which Mrs. Harrington had left out. It was not time, neither was it a stricter attention to the composer’s instructions. It was only a possibility, after all.
In the other room Mrs. Ingham-Baker slumbered still. Mrs. Harrington, unmoved in her grey silk dress, was talking with her usual incisiveness, and Luke was listening gravely. When the piece was done, Mrs. Harrington said over her shoulder--
“Go on. You get on splendidly together.”
And she returned to her conversation with Luke.
The Count looked through his music.
“How devoted she is to her nephews!” said Agatha, tapping the ivory keyboard with a dainty finger.
“Yes.”
“And apparently to both alike.”
There was a little flicker beneath the Count’s lowered eyelids.
“Apparently so,” he answered, with assumed hesitation.