"Then it must have been in the Adirondacks," went on the determined
interlocutor. "Were you at----" But the girl interrupted her. She could
not afford to discuss the Adirondacks, and the sight of the grand piano
across the room had given her an idea.

"Mr. Dunham told me that you would like me to play something for you, as
your musician friend has failed you. I shall be very glad to, if it will
help you any. What do you care for? Something serious or something gay?
Are you fond of Chopin, or Beethoven, or something more modern?"

Scenting a possible musical prodigy, and desiring most earnestly to give
her guests a treat, Mrs. Bowman exclaimed in enthusiasm:

"Oh, how lovely of you! I hardly dared to ask, as Tryon was uncertain
whether you would be willing. Suppose you give us something serious now,
and later, when the men come in, we'll have the gay music. Make your own
choice, though I'm very fond of Chopin, of course."

Without another word, the girl moved quietly over to the piano and took
her seat. For just a moment her fingers wandered caressingly over the
keys, as if they were old friends and she were having an understanding
with them, then she began a Chopin Nocturne. Her touch was firm and
velvety, and she brought out a bell-like tone from the instrument that
made the little company of women realize that the player was mistress of
her art. Her graceful figure and lovely head, with its simple ripples and
waves of hair, were more noticeable than ever as she sat there,
controlling the exquisite harmonies. Even Mrs. Blackwell stopped fanning
and looked interested. Then she whispered to Mrs. Bowman: "A very sweet
young girl. That's a pretty piece she's playing." Mrs. Blackwell was sweet
and commonplace and old-fashioned.