"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Isobel's voice; and Isobel pushed the door open and came in.
Beryl stopped playing, and swung round on the stool.
"This room's not so bad when one gets used to it," said Isobel, walking across to the French window and pushing the curtains back; she stood looking out into the garden. "Anyway, it's better than that perfectly hideous dining-room. What awful taste Miss Crabingway must have! I really don't know whether I shall be able to endure it for six whole months." She threw herself on the couch beside the window and yawned.
Isobel felt rather bored this afternoon. Caroline was still unpacking—besides, who wanted to talk to Caroline?—Pamela was still busy, and waved threateningly to anyone who looked into the study, keeping her eyes fixed on Mrs Beeton. There was no one but Beryl to talk to. Isobel was rather curious about Beryl, because she seemed so unwilling to talk about herself and her home.
"I suppose you learnt music at college?" Isobel observed, studying Beryl's slight, stooping figure, as she sat with her back to the piano, her pale face gazing rather anxiously at her questioner.
"No—oh, no," said Beryl.
"Did you have a music master—or mistress—at home, then?"
"No," said Beryl. "Mother taught me a little—and I—and I picked up the rest for myself."
Isobel raised her eyebrows.
"We had a frightfully handsome music-master at our college at Rugford," said Isobel. "Most of the girls raved over him—but I'm not so keen on Roman noses myself.... What college are you at?"