"I don't play," said Beatrice quietly. "You should hear Percival on the violin, father. He is wonderful!"
"And who is Percival, Beatrice?"
"He is the son of our new neighbor, Mrs. Medulla," Bee informed him. "He lives with his mother in the old Brawley place. He is an infant prodigy."
"I don't care much for such precocity," observed the doctor dryly. "It is usually exploited by long-legged chaps who seek to prolong the illusion of the infantile period by knickerbockers and curls. I am not speaking of your friend, Beatrice, but of the brood in general."
"But Percival has curls, and he does wear knickerbockers," spoke Bee in dismay. "Though he told me, father, that he despised his clothes, and that a real fellow did not like to wear such things. He really is a marvel, and I am sure that Mrs. Medulla would like for us to call on them. She has been very nice to me."
"Very well, my daughter. I suppose that we ought to be neighborly, but I shall not have much time for visiting. Let us listen to your cousin now. She is waiting for us."
Adele had at length settled herself to her satisfaction. She liked to play. She was the center of all eyes at the piano, and she was conscious that she looked her very best as, with eyes upturned, she sang some old ballad in her sweet and plaintive little voice.
Doctor Raymond lighted a cigar. Bee brought his tobacco set and placed it upon a small table by his chair. Then she sat down to listen. How beautiful Adele was! Despite her good resolutions a pang went through her heart as she noted her father's intense gaze of admiration. Adele sang on and on. The room grew dark. Beatrice rose, attended to the lights, trying to stifle the feeling of sadness that was stealing over her.
"Isn't she pretty?" she asked of her father suddenly, bending over and speaking wistfully.
"She is like an exquisite cameo," was the entomologist's enthusiastic response. "I am glad that you admire her, Beatrice, though I do not see how one could help it. Won't she tire herself?"