But he had disconnected. She deliberately made herself late by overdressing. A mad hatter’s model of a bonnet in blue and a frock of rose taffeta with a coat to match furnished her with the proper scenery, she admitted to herself. She slipped in to where Miss Clergy industriously sat knitting army socks and told her she was off for a coaching lesson.
“A coaching or a dancing lesson?” Miss Clergy asked mischievously.
“Both,” Thurley declared.
She found Hobart in his inner study; he was playing an old gavotte and greeting her with a curt nod.
“Well—is a luncheon to follow the lesson? You must have thought I’d keep you all morning. I’ve a pupil at eleven.”
Thurley sat on one of the little peasant chairs and pouted becomingly.
“I dress to suit my mood. Some mornings I have a desire for a winding sheet; this morning I wanted rose taffeta and sapphire velvet.”
Hobart smiled. “Does Miss Clergy ever row about your adorers?”
Thurley flushed, saying in a more natural voice, “Not exactly. To her mind it is the more enhancing—keeping mankind at bay. And it settles a distressing question for me.... I daresay I’d make a cropper of marriage, most of us do. This way, I do as I like,” turning to contemplate the empty fireplace. “Must I be coached this morning?” she added. “My throat feels scratchy and I have a benefit concert to-night.”
“It wasn’t your voice—but yourself.” He ended the song and, rising, took an opposite chair before the fireplace. “I am going away earlier than usual this year because of some work in England; making art aid the war. If I don’t see you again, let me give you a little moral coaching which is all you need to set you right.”