“I like to hear a young man pay a pretty compliment,” he said, rolling back in his chair. “The art is dying out.”
When Minna rose, Hugh held the door open for her. On passing him she whispered:
“You are making a wonderful impression; keep it up.”
He bowed, closed the door upon her and came round to the fire, hating the part so bluntly defined by his wife. To have to cajole this somewhat vulgar old Jew of shady profession, his actual father-in-law! It was trailing his pride in the mud. But he had been doing so ever since the disastrous day of his marriage. A little extra soiling, he reflected cynically, would make but faintly appreciable difference.
The grave butler entered with coffee and cigars. Hugh declined the latter.
“Better have one,” said Israel, carefully selecting. “Don’t get this sort of thing every day. I give seven pound ten a hundred for them.”
“I am a cigarette smoker,” said Hugh, “but still——”
He accepted a cigar courteously. For he knew that a man is apt to be ruffled when you refuse an eighteen-penny havana, and he had good reasons for not wishing to ruffle his host. Presently they went upstairs. Minna moved to the piano. Usually she played with taste and correctness. To-night she strummed abominably.
“We are not quite in the mood for Chopin,” said Hugh, who was turning over her leaves. She stopped dead.
“No. This is more suitable to one’s irritation,” and she plunged into Stephen Heller’s Tarantella. The old man, dozing in his chair, did not notice the change.