"Mrs. Sutcliffe," he said, "is very kind."
She saw it now. He had been at the Sutcliffes that evening. He had seen Papa. He was trying to say, "Your father was drunk at Greffington Hall. He will never be asked there again. He will not be particularly welcome at the Vicarage. But you are very young. We do not wish you to suffer. This is our kindness to you. Take it. You are not in a position to refuse."
"And what am I to say to Mrs. Sutcliffe?"
"Oh, anything you like that wouldn't sound too rude."
"Shall I say that you're a very independent young lady, and that she had better not ask you to join her sewing-class? Would that sound too rude?"
"Not a bit. If you put it nicely. But you would, wouldn't you?"
He looked down at her again. His thick eyes had thawed slightly; they let out a twinkle. But he was holding his lips so tight that they had disappeared. A loud, surprising laugh forced them open.
He held out his hand with a gesture, drawing back his laugh in a tremendous "Fiv-v-v-v."
When he had gone she opened the piano and played, and played. Through the window of the room Chopin's Fontana Polonaise went out after him, joyous, triumphant and defiant, driving him before it. She exulted in her power over the Polonaise. Nothing could touch you, nothing could hurt you while you played. If only you could go on playing for ever—
Her mother came in from the garden.