In such a mood she was playing one Saturday evening in the interval
before dinner, when she became aware that somebody was listening, and
turning her head, she saw through the Irish mist a man's figure standing
in the conservatory. The figure was vanishing when she cried out a whit
huskily, "Oh, pray, don't let me drive you away."
He stood still. "If I am not interrupting your music," he murmured.
"Not at all," she said, breaking it off altogether.
As the mist cleared she had a vivid impression of a tall, fair young
man against a background of palms. "Eyes burning under a white marble
mantel-piece," she summed up his face. Could this uncrippled, rather
good-looking person be Bob?
"Won't you come in, Mr. Robert?" she said riskily.
"I only wished to thank you," he said, sliding a step or two into the
room.
"There is nothing to thank me for," she said, whirling her stool to face
him. "It's my way of amusing myself." She was glad she was in her evening
frock.
"Amusing yourself!" He looked aghast.
"What else? I am alone--I have nothing better in the world to do."
"Does it amuse you?" He was flushed now, even the marble mantel-piece
ruddied by the flame. "I wish it amused me."