Crichton coughed.
“He couldn’t stop, after all!” He replied.
Pamela removed her hat. “Good job, too,” she muttered under her breath.
And then began that singular repast, throughout which O’Hagan talked as only O’Hagan can talk; talked himself into the hearts of the Crichtons. The old man’s natural resentment—which hitherto had not become wholly dispersed—melted before the geniality of his distinguished guest; Mr. Parkins was forgotten. Pamela forgot her troubles and became all smiles. Crichton burned with pride to note that Captain O’Hagan treated her as an intellectual equal. Of the Captain’s honourable and friendly intentions no man could doubt after thirty minutes in his company; and so that was a happy hour spent at the newsagent’s humble table.
The meal despatched:
“Now for the music!” said O’Hagan, and crossing the little room, he opened the piano.
Pamela stared.
“May I try over your new piece, Miss Crichton?”
“Oh!” cried the girl. “You play?”
“A little. I should like, as a pleasure, to hear your own rendering; as a matter of business I should prefer to play the piece myself.”