When tea-time came, two hours and a half later, she was still strumming—strumming a little thing by Verdi, as it happened. Mother sat and smiled upon her indulgently.
That night, when Genevieve had retired to rest, she heard the faint sounds of the piano from the drawing-room; it was playing an air from Verdi. Mother was the only person downstairs who could play the piano.
"Mother," said Genevieve, next day, "of course that must be all nonsense about the College of Beauty, eh? Of course, it would be quite impossible to make oneself more beautiful by——"
"Of course, Jenny, of course—sheer nonsense!" said Mother.
"Ye-es, of course," said Jenny. "But I've often thought I should so love to see New York—haven't you?"
"New York is—no doubt—a—a very interesting place," said Mother.
"Do let's go—just to see New York!" said Genevieve.
"Er—well; I'll speak to papa about it. You do want a change," said Mother.
There was a ring.