"Something'll come of this, I am sure. Do you think they liked me?"
"You sang well," Vickers replied evasively, "better than well, the Rome."
In the lobby of the hotel she turned as though to dismiss him, but Vickers, who was talking of a change to be made in one of the songs, accompanied her to the parlor above, where they had practised the music in preparation for the concert. Mrs. Conry glanced quickly into the room as they entered, as if expecting to find some one there. Vickers was saying:—
"I think we shall have to add another one to the Cycle,—New York or something to stand for—well, what it is over here,—just living!"
The door of the inner room opened and a man appeared, coatless, with a much-flowered waistcoat.
"So you're back," the man remarked in a heavy voice.
"My husband," Mrs. Conry explained, "Mr. Vickers Price!"
Mr. Conry shuffled heavily into the room. He was a large man with a big grizzled head and very red face, finely chased with purple veins. He gave Vickers a stubby hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Price. Heard about you from Delia. Sit down." Conry himself stood, swaying slightly on his stout legs. After a time he chose a seat with great deliberation and continued to stare at the young man. "Have a cigar?" He took one from his waistcoat pocket and held it towards the young man. "It's a good one,—none of your barroom smokes,—oh, I see you are one of those cigarette fiends, same as Stacia!"
There was a conversational hiatus, and Vickers was thinking of going.