“All the same, I think it’s no compliment to a girl to think only of what she can do,” Sydney persisted with some temper.
“Sydney, you don’t understand. A musician, a real one, doesn’t do things musical; he is them. Hundreds of girls strum on the piano. The rare one puts her soul into it and draws forth the angel of harmony that civilizes us.”
Sydney knew this was a high tribute, but with narrow, snap judgment decided it was selfish.
Max talked on, and on, more to himself than to his unwilling listener, but roused at last to Sydney’s silence. “I guess you don’t wish me to play with Miss Carter. Is that it? Do you care so much?”
How could Sydney know that it was the intuition belonging to his temperament that enabled Max to read his heart? Angry, hurt, jealous, he did what the awkward, blundering boy so often does, denied himself, belied himself. “I? I have nothing to say about it. Miss Carter is nothing to me. I’ve known her some time, that’s all. Her folks are kind to me, too.”
“Then it’s all right?”
“Of course it is.”
“Good!” Max responded; and they entered the house.
On the hall table lay a fat-looking, pretentious letter for Max.