“A tribute to Beethoven,” returned Sergia. Then, after a moment, she laughed softly. Sergia was not addicted to MacDowell.
XV
Uncle William crept into the rooms like a thief, but the artist was sleeping soundly. He did not stir as the latch gave a little click in the lock. “That’s good,” said Uncle William. He had slipped off his shoes and was in his stocking feet. He stole over to the bed and stood looking down at the thin face. It was a little drawn, with hollow eyes. “He’ll perk considabul when he hears about them picters,” said Uncle William.
But in the morning when, after breakfast, Uncle William announced his great news, the artist ignored it. “Is she coming—Sergia?”
Uncle William scowled his forehead in recollection. “Now, I can’t seem to remember ’t she said so.”
“What did she say?” The tone was imperative.
“Well, she asked how you was gettin’ along. I told her that—as well as I could.”
“Didn’t you tell her I wanted to see her?”
“Yes, I told her that.” Uncle William’s voice was impartial.