“It was a good period, children; don’t speak slightingly of it.”
The old gentleman was lighting a fresh cigar at the mantel. Leighton and Zelda crossed the hall together.
“Shall we stay here?” Merriam asked his sister. “The chairs over there are pretty bad.”
The piano itself was not visible, but when the girl sat down by it her profile was turned toward them.
Leighton opened a cabinet of old music, and drew out the sheets for Zelda while they discussed the songs, which were all of a sentimental sort that had long been out of favor.
“I really don’t see how they could have done it,” said Zelda. “I suppose young women in those days were more courageous, or sentimental, or something. Perhaps we have changed for the worse.”
“I shouldn’t like to admit it.”
“I have heard that lawyers never admit anything,” she said, musingly, scanning the songs as Morris held them up for her.
“You’re conceding a good deal when you intimate that I’m a lawyer. But you’re hard to please—about the music, I mean!”
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ve thought of something;” and she struck suddenly the prelude of a song.