The luncheon then proceeded, the Prophet gravely assisting from the vantage point of a neighbouring chair, the Houri, more emotional, promenading earnestly at the heels of Aristocrates. As for Strindberg, she possessed neither manners nor concentration, and she alternately squalled her desires for food or frisked all over the studio, attempting complicated maneuvres with every curtain-cord and tassel within reach.
Dulcie had found her voice again—a low, uncertain, tremulous little voice when she tried to thank him for the happiness he had given her—a clearer, firmer voice when he dexterously led the conversation into channels more familiar and serene.
They talked of the graduating exercises, of her part in them, of her classmates, of education in general.
She told him that since she was quite young she had learned to play the piano by remaining for an hour every day after school, and receiving instruction from a young teacher who needed a little extra pin money.
As for singing, she had had no instruction. Her voice had never been tried, never been cultivated.
“We’ll have it tried some day,” he said casually.
But Dulcie shook her head, explaining that it was an expensive process and not to be thought of.
“How did you pay for your piano lessons?” he asked.
“I paid twenty-five cents an hour. My mother left a little money for me when I was a baby. I spent it all that way.”