The talk was desultory for a while, and then Meg asked her cousin to play for them, “Which was generous of me,” she confided later, to Robert, “for it showed her to the best advantage.”
Without demur she seated herself at the piano and at once began to play with such sweetness and power that Robert was amazed. Glancing toward her husband, whose face reflected his appreciation of the music, as well as his adoration of the performer, Robert felt that he held the key to the puzzle.
As they were walking home, Meg asked him suddenly, “What did you think of my kin-folks?” As he paused, she continued, “Never mind the house,—I know what you thought of that,—but tell me what you think of Charlie?”
“He is a man I could love like a brother. I have never felt so drawn to a stranger.”
“You dear boy!” cried Meg impulsively; “I always knew you were nice, but I never dreamed you were that nice. You see, Cousin Charlie is my hobby, for I think he is a grand character, and I want him to be appreciated.”
“Is he not?”
“By everybody but his wife.”
“I thought that, but I didn’t want to judge her hastily,” commented Robert.
“She does not appreciate him,” Meg vehemently exclaimed. “I wish I could shake a little sense into her. He was too sick a man to be left this afternoon, but she didn’t know it, or didn’t care if she did know it. Why, if I had a husband like that, and he had nothing more serious the matter with him than a boil, I would stay with him!”
“I believe you would.” She looked up suddenly, surprised by a new note in Robert’s voice, and found him looking at her earnestly. The interchange of glances embarrassed both of them, and to cover it, he continued rather hastily, “I don’t understand how a woman of her evident lack of feelings can have such a divine conception of music.”