“Oh, that!”
She was looking at Morris steadily and nodded her head gravely. The emphasis on the pronoun was very slight, but it was enough to carry a hint of impertinence.
Merriam and his sister were observing the young people from different points of view. The former was anxious for Leighton to impress Mrs. Forrest and Zelda favorably. Mrs. Forrest, on the other hand, watched the girl with an admiration that was not wholly void of anxiety. People usually laughed at what Zelda said, but Mrs. Forrest was not altogether sure in her own mind as to the quality of the girl’s humor; or perhaps she thought the amusement that Zelda created was merely another instance of the ease with which a pretty girl can carry off a situation. She wondered whether her brother had brought Zelda and Morris Leighton together with a purpose; but she saw no reason for suspecting him. It was natural that her brother should have taken up the son of an old friend; she knew that he was kind and generous; and Morris was a very presentable young man. He crossed the room now, and began talking more particularly to her, though still including the others. He was very straightforward and cordial. He spoke of Mariona social matters with an irony that had no unkindness in it; and when he appealed to her brother for corroboration there was a genuine respect under his joking.
“I’m not a social animal,” Merriam remarked. “I’ve stopped going out. If you could go to a friend’s house and hear talk that had sense or wit in it, I’d be glad to leave my slippers and go about. But every house nowadays is a museum of devices for making a row. You no sooner get your hat off than your host turns on a hideous, automatic, perfectly tireless device that squeals and roars like a circus calliope. The devil’s in the things and they never run down. The other evening I went to Carr’s, thinking I’d have a quiet evening, and he—Mike Carr—had the effrontery to turn loose an infernal machine that squealed out Hamlet’s soliloquy and vilely murdered it, so that I wouldn’t hear it again—not if Edwin Booth came back to life and offered to give it in this very room! But,—we can have better entertainment here. There’s the parlor and a piano. Let there be music.”
“Your piano is probably impossible,” suggested Mrs. Forrest.
“It’s not my fault if it isn’t in tune. I had a man at work on it all day yesterday.”
“I suppose there are books of music. We usually require something of the kind,” said Zelda.
“Um—you ought to have brought your own.”
“Not, I hope, without being urged in advance!”
“There are some things here, I think,” said Morris, “if you will let me show you the way. Mr. Merriam’s music probably dates back to the Kathleen Mavourneen period.”