Lallie sang in English, for she could not speak Norwegian, and every word was clearly enunciated and distinct; the soft humming refrain followed, and died away into silence.
"Heavens!" thought Tony, "the child is homesick alone in there with Miss Foster; she sounds cold too--this is dreadful!"
He hurried to the drawing-room, expecting to find Lallie in the tearful state her pathetic voice had indicated.
"I thought that would bring you," Lallie remarked complacently. "Come here, Tony, and admire my theatre coat Dad brought me from Paris."
Tony stood where he was, staring at the gorgeous little figure seated perkily on the piano stool; at the big cheerless room, with one electric light burning in dismal prominence over the piano; at the black and chilly hearth.
"Why in the name of all that's idiotic haven't you got a fire?" he asked angrily.
"In this house," Lallie replied, in Miss Foster's very tones, "we never have fires till the first of October."
Poor Tony looked very miserable.
"I am so sorry," he said helplessly; "you'd better come and sit in my study. I have a fire."
"It's I who ought to be sorry, Tony, worrying you like this. It was horrid of me to tell tales. No, I won't come and sit in your study, for that would only make her hate me the more. I'm not a bit cold in my beautiful coat, and I'll go on making music quite happily. Run away back to your little exercise books."