Theodore went over to the piano and stood beside her as she played.
“I knew you were a musician,” he said, “though I never heard you touch the keys till to-night.”
“How did you know?”
“My cousin Juanita told me. She remembered your playing in her mother’s room when she was a child.”
The woman called Marian lifted her eyes to him with a look of patient reproach, as if she said, “You are cruel to hit any one so helpless as I am,” and then, playing all the time, she answered coldly,—
“I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you! Oh, but indeed I think you do, and I should be very glad to be of use to you if you would let me, for the sake of those old days. I don’t think it is possible I can be mistaken, though you may have your own reason for refusing to confide in me.”
He was certain now in his own mind that this was Mercy Porter and no other. That fine touch upon the piano implied sustained and careful cultivation. She did not play like a girl who had learnt music as an afterthought.
He left the house when she did, and walked part of the way to Hercules Buildings with her, but did not offer to go out of his way to see her home, being very sure she would refuse.
“I wish you would trust me,” he said gently, as they walked side by side, without looking at each other. “Believe me that every one at Cheriton is sorry for you. If you were to go back to the neighbourhood you would have everybody’s sympathy. There would be no one to cast a stone.”