"And who may Mr. Fenton be? I've never met him—have I, Sandy?"
"No. He's a well-known singer Kitty's recently admitted into the fold."
"Do you mean he earns his living by singing at concerts?"
"Yes. And a jolly good living, too."
A shadow fell across Sandy's pleasant freckled face. It was a matter of unavailing regret to him that owing to his parents' prejudice against music and musicians he had been debarred from earning a living in like manner with his long, capable fingers. Eliza saw the shadow, and her brows contracted in a slight frown. Vaguely she was beginning to realise some small part of the suffering which the parental restriction had imposed upon her son—the perpetual irritation of a thwarted longing which it had entailed. But she had not yet advanced sufficiently along the widening road of thought to grasp the pitiful, irreparable waste it had involved of a talent bordering on genius.
She pursed her lips obstinately together.
"There'll come no blessing with money that's earned by mere pleasuring," she averred.
"If you only knew what hard work it means to be a successful musician, Aunt Eliza, you'd be less drastic in your criticism," interposed Nan, with warmth.
Eliza's shrewd eyes twinkled.
"You work hard, don't you, my dear?" she observed drily.