Decourcy smiled at her banter, but he fancied he discerned in her voice a faint ring of earnestness, tinctured with scorn, that disconcerted him.
“What is the use of six,” he said, “when I have the sweet ministrations of all, merged into one?—the little maid of long ago! Her comforting offices are an old experience, and, without having seen her dance, I’m willing to pit her against any pair of houris in the Orient; and as to music, I prefer the piano to citherns and citoles.”
“Especially in the early morning hours,” said Margaret, slyly, “when your Sereneness is enjoying your nap.”
“Who told you anything about that?” he said, starting, and turning toward her abruptly.
“I guessed the truth and asked Amy, and she had to own it.”
“I don’t hear you in the least, where I am now. I hope you have not given up your practising on my account. I am afraid you have!”
“On the contrary,” answered Margaret, “my effort is to make more noise, and I constantly use the loud pedal. If my instrument had been as movable as your apartment, I should have followed you across the hall.”
“Why do you talk to me like this, Daisy?”
“Because I think you ought to come down in time for breakfast, and not give Amy the trouble of having things prepared afresh for you.”
“Amy likes it,” he said, smiling.