"Yes."
"What? 'Lullaby?'"
"Yes," muttered the lawyer.
Verty's sad eyes inquired the meaning of so singular a fact, but Mr.
Rushton did not indulge this curiosity.
"Enough," he said, with more calmness, as he turned away, "it is not proper for you to play the violin here in business hours; but above all, never again play that music—I cannot endure the memories it arouses—enough."
And retiring slowly, Mr. Rushton disappeared, closing the door of his room behind him.
Verty followed him with his eyes until he was no longer visible, then turned toward Mr. Roundjacket for an explanation. That gentleman seemed to understand this mute interrogation, but only shook his head.
Therefore Verty returned to his work, sadly laying aside the two sketches of Redbud, and selecting another sheet to copy the record upon. By the time he had finished one page, Mr. Roundjacket rose from his desk, stretched himself, and announced that office hours were over, and he would seek his surburban cottage, where this gentleman lived in bachelor misery. Verty said he was tired, too; and before long had told Mr. Roundjacket good-bye, and mounted Cloud.
With Longears at his side, soberly walking in imitation of the horse, Verty went along toward his home in the hills, gazing upon the golden west, and thinking still of Redbud.