“A banjo,” said the girl, blushing in her father's presence.
Mela gurgled. “Mr. Beaton is learnun' her the first position.”
Beaton was not embarrassed. He was in evening dress, and his face, pointed with its brown beard, showed extremely handsome above the expanse of his broad, white shirt-front. He gave back as nonchalant a nod as he had got, and, without further greeting to Dryfoos, he said to Christine: “No, no. You must keep your hand and arm so.” He held them in position. “There! Now strike with your right hand. See?”
“I don't believe I can ever learn,” said the girl, with a fond upward look at him.
“Oh yes, you can,” said Beaton.
They both ignored Dryfoos in the little play of protests which followed, and he said, half jocosely, half suspiciously, “And is the banjo the fashion, now?” He remembered it as the emblem of low-down show business, and associated it with end-men and blackened faces and grotesque shirt-collars.
“It's all the rage,” Mela shouted, in answer for all. “Everybody plays it. Mr. Beaton borrowed this from a lady friend of his.”
“Humph! Pity I got you a piano, then,” said Dryfoos. “A banjo would have been cheaper.”
Beaton so far admitted him to the conversation as to seem reminded of the piano by his mentioning it. He said to Mela, “Oh, won't you just strike those chords?” and as Mela wheeled about and beat the keys he took the banjo from Christine and sat down with it. “This way!” He strummed it, and murmured the tune Dryfoos had heard him singing from the library, while he kept his beautiful eyes floating on Christine's. “You try that, now; it's very simple.”
“Where is Mrs. Mandel?” Dryfoos demanded, trying to assert himself.