“Will you be more respectful to me, Garry?”
“Respectful? I don’t know.”
“Very well, then, I’m not coming back.”
But when he entered the music-room half an hour later, Dulcie was seated demurely before the piano, and when he came and stood behind her she dropped her head straight back and looked up at him.
“I had a wonderful icy bath,” she said, “and I’m ready for anything. Are you?”
“Almost,” he said, looking down at her.
She straightened up, gazed silently at the piano for a few moments; sounded a few chords. Then her fingers wandered uncertainly, as though groping for something that eluded them—something that they delicately sought to interpret. But apparently she did not discover it; and her search among the keys ended in a soft chord like a sigh. Only her lips could have spoken more plainly.
At that moment Westmore and Thessalie came in breezily and remained to gossip a few minutes before bathing and changing.
“Play something jolly!” said Westmore. “One of those gay Irish things, you know, like ‘The Honourable Michael Dunn,’ or ‘Finnigan’s Wake,’ or——”