“The notes are all harsh and the wires rusty.”
She glanced at the mirror and saw the same intentness in his eyes.
“Then you do not play often?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My mother is no music-lover. And my fingers have grown stiff.”
“Why should that have been?”
“I have hardly touched the key-board since—my father died.”
She watched him in the mirror, but he did not change his posture or betray anything upon his face. It seemed stern, and a little sad, the face of a man with depths beneath a surface of reserve.
“I can understand that—in measure.”