Evan stepped in, and his eyes flew to find his rival. The latter was sitting between the piano and the window. He was younger than Evan, not much more than a lad in fact, but a resolute, comely lad; one of whom Evan could be jealous.
"Mr. Weir, Mr. Anway," said Corinna impassively.
They nodded, eyeing each other like strange dogs. A factitious calm descended on Evan. He could even smile, but there were ugly lines around his mouth. His voice was harsh.
"Aren't we going to have some music?" he said.
By this he meant to convey to the other man that he was accustomed to be entertained in that room. The point was not lost. The younger man whitened about the lips. The girl gave no sign at all. Even in his anger Evan commended her pluck. She kept her chin up; her eyes were scornful.
"I'll play," she said going towards the piano.
"I like your singing better," said Evan.
"I am not in the humour," she said in a tone that finally disposed of the question.
She played—what she played Evan never knew. It is doubtful if any of them heard a note. Evan sat affecting to listen with a smile like a grimace. The other man kept his eyes down. Whatever Corinna may have been feeling, it did not interfere with the technical excellence of her performance; her fingers danced like fairies over the keys, but to-night there was no magic in the sounds they evoked.
Corinna's part was the easiest because she had something to do and somewhere to look. She went from one piece to another without a word being spoken. Evan went on smiling until his face was cracking; the other never looked up.