They talked over the day’s news, and then an organ began to grind outside. The tune was a rollicking air he had heard at some music-hall; and, by way of a diversion, he asked her if she knew the composition.
‘No, I don’t!’ she replied.
‘Now, I’ll tell you all about it,’ said he gravely. ‘It is based on a sound old melody called “The Jilt’s Hornpipe.” Just as they turn Madeira into port in the space of a single night, so this old air has been taken and doctored, and twisted about, and brought out as a new popular ditty.’
‘Indeed!’
‘If you are in the habit of going much to the music-halls or the burlesque theatres—’
‘Yes?’
‘You would find this is often done, with excellent effect.’
She thawed a little, and then they went on to talk about her house, which had been newly painted, and decorated with greenish-blue satin up to the height of a person’s head—an arrangement that somewhat improved her slightly faded, though still pretty, face, and was helped by the awnings over the windows.
‘Yes; I have had my house some years,’ she observed complacently, ‘and I like it better every year.’
‘Don’t you feel lonely in it sometimes?’