do with her decision, he was sure. He watched her interestedly.
“Mother used to play——” she began.
“Vera!” said Beatrice reproachfully.
“Let us have a song,” suggested Mr. Holiday.
“Mr. Holiday wishes to sing, mother,” said Vera, going to the music-rack.
“Nay—I—it’s not me,” Holiday began.
“ ‘The Village Blacksmith,’ ” said Vera, pulling out the piece. Holiday advanced. Vera glanced at her mother.
“But I have not touched the piano for—for years, I am sure,” protested Beatrice.
“You can play beautifully,” said Vera.
Beatrice accompanied the song. Holiday sang atrociously. Allport glared at him. Vera remained very calm.
At the end Beatrice was overcome by the touch of the piano. She went out abruptly.
“Mother has suddenly remembered that to-morrow’s jellies are not made,” laughed Vera.
Allport looked at her, and was sad.
When Beatrice returned, Holiday insisted she should play again. She would have found it more difficult to refuse than to comply.
Vera retired early, soon to be followed by Allport and Holiday. At half-past ten Mr. MacWhirter came in with his ancient volume. Beatrice was studying a cookery-book.
“You, too, at the midnight lamp!” exclaimed MacWhirter politely.
“Ah, I am only looking for a pudding for to-morrow,” Beatrice replied.
