This was encouraging. Mamie took up her book again; but not for long.
“Do you suppose he is worrying about the business, ma? He and Mr. Halloran are working almost every night now.”
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Higginson replied. “It would have been better for him if he had taken my advice five years ago and retired. Your father has no time to think of us, my dear.”
Mamie felt some injustice in this and would have dropped the subject had not her mother, roused to it, pushed on.
“He says himself that Mr. Halloran has shown himself able to run the business, and yet he will not go away even for a week. I think if we could only get him off for a short time he would want to stay, once he had made up his mind to it.” At this moment the library door opened and the two men could be heard in the hall. Mrs. Higginson's face brightened. “Play something for me, my dear,” she said.
“Oh, no, ma. They are just coming in here.”
“Who? Are they? Play the march Mr. Halloran likes so much.”
Mamie went obediently to the piano and was crashing out the opening chords when the two men reached the parlour door. Mrs. Higginson rose and extended her hand with a bright smile. Mamie showed signs of stopping, but Halloran nodded to her to go on, and dropped into a chair. Mrs. Higginson came over and sat down by him, leaving her cards in disorder on the table.
“I had just asked Mamie to play for me before you came in,” she said, pitching her voice somewhat above the noise of the march. “I always like to hear her play when I have one of my headaches. It seems to make me forget myself for a little while. And I really think she plays very well.”
Yes; Halloran thought so, too.