“By sitting where he did. Not even opposite side of the table! My luck, even, was better.”
“Your luck? How?”
“Because—I could at least see you!”
Lady Harden was an adept in the gentle art of snubbing.
“My dear child,” she said, very gently, pulling off her gloves, “don’t be absurd. I can’t bear being made love to by boys!”
“I haven’t the slightest intention——” he began, fiercely, but she had turned, and, opening her violin case, took out what she always called her fiddle.
She was not a musical artist—so few people are—but she had worked hard, and knew the things she played.
If there was no Heaven-shaking inspiration about her, there was no flatting, no slipping from note to note. She played simple, little-known things, plaintive for the most part, and played them well.
She also looked her best with fiddle in her arms, a rapt, far-off expression in her half-closed eyes.
Teddy Cleeve, watching her, hated her for the moment.