He turned and smiled at her.
"Do you remember when I was here that evening about two months ago I said I should like to be your friend? Well, I meant it. And I have often hoped, since then, that some circumstance might bring us together again. You seemed to think that no friendship was possible between us, but I have tried to make myself believe that you said so because you didn't know me."
"Honest to God?" she asked. "Is that on the level?"
"I only ask for an opportunity to prove it," he replied, striving to speak naturally. He stooped and laid the dustpan on the hearth. "There! Now let's sit down."
She sank on the sofa, her breast rising and falling, her gaze dumbly fixed on him, as one under hypnosis. He took the rocker.
"I have wanted to tell you how grateful Mrs. Garvin, the boy's mother —was for the roses you brought. She doesn't know who sent them, but I intend to tell her, and she will thank you herself. She is living out in the country. And the boy—you would scarcely recognize him."
"I couldn't play the piano for a week after—that thing happened." She glanced at the space where the instrument had stood.
"You taught yourself to play?" he asked.
"I had music lessons."
"Music lessons?"