Joe. I certainly have. But Aunt Harriet always avoided the subject and I could never get you to say anything about it.
Lydia. By the time I had tried it for two years, I knew better.
Joe. But why is it locked?
Lydia. Because I neglected my duties. I played the piano when I should have been studying, and I played when I should have been hemming linen, and I played when I should have been learning psalms.
Joe. But surely when you grew older—when you were through school—
Lydia. No. I lied to her once about it. She made me promise not to touch the piano, and left it open on purpose to see what I would do. And I played and she heard me. So when I denied it—[Shrugging her shoulders.] You see, after that, to have let me go on, playing and undisciplined—why, it would have meant the loss of my soul. [Very pleasantly.] It would have meant hell, at least, Joe dear, and I don't know what else. Aunt Harriet has always been so careful about what I learned.
Joe [angrily]. But surely you are old enough now to do what you want to! I'll ask her myself if—
Lydia [alarmed]. Oh, no, Joe! Please, please don't do that. I should be frightened, really. It is a matter of religion with her.
Joe. And don't you know how to play any longer?
Lydia. Yes, some. I sneak into the church when no one is there and play on that piano. [She walks to the instrument, and sitting down before it, rubs her palms lovingly across the closed lid.] When you were away six months ago, this was opened to be tuned for those young cousins of hers who visited. They were lively young girls, and the first thing they did every morning was to go to the piano. They would have asked questions if it had been locked, and Aunt Harriet hates inquisitiveness like poison.