“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she had a lot of it,” agreed Mr. Scanlon. “But it was the yellow hair and so on, I guess, that made me think her a German.”
“She dresses to conform with the background,” said Miss Hohenlo gently. “Dear Grace, she is such a beauty. The braids of yellow hair and the strength of her outline go very well with a place like Schwartzberg.”
“You’ve been together a long time,” said Mr. Scanlon, “and you think a lot of her, I know.”
“She’s been with me since Frederic’s father died,” said Miss Hohenlo. “She was the daughter of a friend and business partner. I am very fond of her.”
“I think,” said Mr. Scanlon, carefully, “your nephew is, also.”
“Frederic!” Miss Hohenlo struck the strings and they reverberated thrillingly. “He loves her.”
“I had supposed something like that was the case,” admitted Bat. “He never said anything, you know, but a fellow can usually size up these matters.” There was a pause during which the harp spoke murmuringly, and Bat kept the time upon the arms of his chair with his fingers. “And do you know, when I did finally size it up,” he added, “it gave me quite a start.”
The beautiful hands left the strings and clasped themselves together; Miss Hohenlo turned an incredulous face toward the speaker.
“Gave you a start!” she said. “Oh, Mr. Scanlon, one can’t imagine anything like that.”
“Well,” said Bat, “maybe you wouldn’t think so, seeing I turn the scales at about fourteen stone, and was brought up in the open. But start I did on that occasion.”