“Admirably said, madam,” Hood rejoined readily. “We ask nothing of you but seats at your table and the favor of a little wholesome and stimulating conversation, which I refuse to believe you capable of denying us.”
A clock somewhere began to boom seven. She waited for the last stroke to die away.
“I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant, no matter how unworthy. You may remain.”
“I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant,
no matter how unworthy. You may remain.”
Deering had hardly adjusted himself to this when an old gentleman entered the room, and with only the most casual glance at the two pilgrims walked to the grand piano, shook back his cuffs, and began playing Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,” as though that particular melody were the one great passion of his life. When he had concluded he rose and shook down his cuffs.
“If that isn’t music,” he demanded, walking up to the amazed Deering, who still clung to his post by the door, “what is it? Answer me that!”
“You played it perfectly,” Deering stammered.