“I hear that you not only perform but compose, Miss Fullerton,” he said. “As soon as I heard that, I felt that I must make your acquaintance. My friends, the Gordons, are very charming, but they don’t understand a note of music, and I am badly off for a kindred spirit.”
“My composing is a very mild affair,” Hadria answered. “I suppose you are more fortunate.”
“Not much. I am pretty busy you see. I have my profession. I play a good deal—the piano and the ’cello are my instruments. But my difficulty is to find someone to accompany me. My sister does when she can, but of course with a house and family to look after——I am sometimes selfish enough to wish she had not married. We used to be such good friends.”
“Is that all over?”
“It is different. She always manages to be busy now,” said Temperley in a slightly ironical tone.
He plunged once more, into a musical discussion.
Hadria had reluctantly to cut it short, in order to arrange tennis-matches. This task was performed as usual, somewhat recklessly. Polite and amiable in indiscriminate fashion, Hadria ignored the secret jealousies and heart-burnings of the neighbourhood, only to recognise and repent her mistakes when too late. To-day she was even more unchastened than usual in her dealings with inflammable social material.
“Hadria!” cried Mrs. Fullerton, taking her aside, “How could you ask Cecilia Gordon to play with young McKenzie? You know their families are not on speaking terms!”
Everyone, except the culprit, had remarked the haughty manner in which Cecilia wielded her racket, and the gloomy silence in which the set was played.
Hadria, though not impenitent, laughed. “How does Miss Gordon manage to be energetic and chilling at the same time!” she exclaimed.