“You are not homesick in your new quarters?”
“No.”
“Let me hold that portfolio for you.” He interposed a dexterous hand. “Oh, don’t thank me—you see, if you drop it, courtesy will oblige me to pick up all the music. This is the first time we’ve met since you have been in the house; I’ve been so patient that I deserve more than to have little cold, hard monosyllables thrown at me.”
“Patient!”
“Haven’t I seen you slip out of the way when you thought I was coming? I’m accustomed to the phenomenon.” The lightness of his tone did not hide the bitter strain under it. “Really, I’m not lacking in perception. I wished to give you time to get inured to the sad fact that I live here; and you need not have changed the time for your lessons last week, for I have no regular time for my daily exodus at present. If you will keep your head so persistently turned away, you might as well utilize the position. Play me something.”
“No, you play for me,” returned Dosia, glad of the chance to divert his attention from her.
“I might play ‘Greeting,’ since I’m not going to get any.”
He seated himself on the piano-bench she vacated, and played a few strains absently; there was that in the low, sweet chords among which his fingers strayed that could not but enchain. She forgot her aloofness to listen. Presently he said:
“Who is my rival?”
“What do you mean?” She started up, and stood with both arms resting on the lower end of the grand piano, staring at him.