"He will be a great help to Mr. Hepburne," she went on, still eyeing me coldly. "Such an excellent adviser and friend. By the way, you are musical, I daresay?"
"No; I am very fond of music, but I neither play nor sing."
"Really; and Mr. Hepburne sings so well. His love for his guitar used to be almost a mania; has he given it up?"
"Oh, no," said Marian Bailey, coming to my corner, and taking it on herself to answer the question. "His guitar is always taken up in spare moments, and the verses that Mrs. Hepburne writes for him to sing are some of the most charming things you ever heard."
"Really?" repeated Miss Lorimer, raising her golden eyebrows. "I must ask to see those verses one of these days."
I saw Ronald watching us from his station on the other side of the room, and felt that I did not succeed in making myself agreeable to his old love. What would I not have given to have recalled the old bright manner with which I used to charm the people who came to Lady Waterville's "At homes." But I was too young to wear a mask gracefully, and of all disguises, the sparkling mask is the most difficult to assume. If the wearer be inexperienced, ten to one that it will drop off suddenly, in some unguarded moment, and reveal the haggard face and heavy heart that was meant to hide.
Just then, Marian contrived to lead Miss Lorimer away to the piano, and I was left in peace. Ida was a cold, brilliant player; her performance was creditable enough, I daresay, but not a single note touched my heart.
The evening came to an end. We uttered our good-nights; I folded a shabby woollen wrap round my shoulders, and Ida muffled herself in a golden plush opera cloak, bordered with rich dark fur. How regal she looked when my husband put her into the brougham that was waiting before the door.
We departed next, sitting side by side in hansom; but I did not enjoy the drive this time.
"You are tired to death, Louie," said Ronald, after a long silence.