“If—if you like.”
He nearly laughed aloud as he saw the silk curtains drawn. The Prince stood aside to allow Edna to pass in first, and Olive, glancing up momentarily from the unfamiliar notes, saw the green gleam of an emerald on the strong brown hand as the brocaded folds were lifted up. Her own hands swerved, blundered, and she perpetrated a hopeless discord.
“I beg your pardon,” she said confusedly.
Mamie shrugged her shoulders. “Never mind,” she answered lightly. “The last verse don’t matter anyway. Come to here, Edna. Momma wants to hear your fiddle-playing.”
“Yes, play us something, my dear.”
The little girl came forward shyly.
As the Prince and the Marchese stood together by the fireplace at the other end of the long room Mamie joined them. “You sang that devil’s nocturne inimitably,” observed her stepfather, drily. “I am quite sorry to have to ask you not to do it again.”
“Not again? Why not?”
She perched herself on the arm of one of the great gilt chairs. The Prince raised his eyes from the thoughtful contemplation of her ankles to stare at her impudent red parted lips.
“Why not! Need I explain, cara? It was delicious; I enjoyed it, but, alas!” He heaved an exaggerated sigh and then laughed, and the young man and the girl shared in his merriment.