Now Tom's horse and sleigh were in the stable, for he meant to drive out to College that evening, but he did n't take Maud's hint. It was less trouble to lie still, and say in a conciliatory tone, “Tell me some more about this good boy, it's very interesting.”
“No, I shan't, but I'll tell about Puttel's playing on the piano,” said Maud, anxious to efface the memory of her momentary weakness. “Polly points to the right key with a little stick, and Puttel sits on the stool and pats each key as it's touched, and it makes a tune. It's so funny to see her, and Nick perches on the rack and sings as if he'd kill himself.”
“Very thrilling,” said Tom, in a sleepy tone.
Maud felt that her conversation was not as interesting as she hoped, and tried again.
“Polly thinks you are handsomer than Mr. Sydney.”
“Much obliged.”
“I asked which she thought had the nicest face, and she said yours was the handsomest, and his the best.”
“Does he ever go there?” asked a sharp voice behind them; and looking round Maud saw Fanny in the big chair, cooking her feet over the register.
“I never saw him there; he sent up some books one day, and Will teased her about it.”
“What did she do?” demanded Fanny. “Oh, she shook him.”