“I must talk to you alone soon,” whispered Andrews.
“All right,” she said, her face reddening as she leaned over the chest.
On top of the music was a revolver.
“Look out, it's loaded,” she said, when he picked it up.
He looked at her inquiringly. “I have another in my room. You see Mother and I are often alone here, and then, I like firearms. Don't you?”
“I hate them,” muttered Andrews.
“Here's tons of Bach.”
“Fine.... Look, Genevieve,” he said suddenly, “lend me that revolver for a few days. I'll tell you why I want it later.”
“Certainly. Be careful, because it's loaded,” she said in an offhand manner, walking over to the piano with two volumes under each arm. Andrews closed the chest and followed her, suddenly bubbling with gaiety. He opened a volume haphazard.
“To a friend to dissuade him from starting on a journey,” he read. “Oh, I used to know that.”