“Is he graciously pleased to commend it?” asked Marion, laughing.
“Yes, indeed. He has a most extraordinary opinion of your talents, as he said he did not know such a thing as a good curry was to be had in England. Was that not rude? Now, I will not talk ‘cooking’ any more. Do play me something. I see the piano is invitingly open. It is ever so long since I heard you. Or will it tire you?”
“I am not tired at all,” said Marion, and went to the piano. “What shall it be? Something calm and soothing, I suppose, and not at all suggestive of domestic worries.”
So Marion played a delicious “Lullaby” of Rubinstein’s, and Mrs. Holden lay back in the rocking-chair to listen—a graceful figure in blue.
“Thank you so much!” said a voice behind her as she finished.
Marion started slightly, and looked round to find that Mr. Scott had come back again, and had been let in by Abigail without her noticing the fact.
Mrs. Holden laughed mischievously.
“I have not had such a treat since I went to India,” said her brother. “Pray do not stop. You don’t know how much I enjoy it,” and he sat down prepared to listen to more.
So Marion played on. This time it was the “Spinn lied” from the “Lieder ohne Worte.”
“Tom, you are positively improving,” said his sister critically, as she finished and Abigail came in with the tea-things. “Just before you went away, I remember taking you to a Saturday concert at St. James’s Hall, and you annoyed me by coming out in the middle. Marion’s playing seems to have worked a sort of charm.”