It was Sunday afternoon in Miss Patricia Doyle's pretty flat at 3708
Willing Square. In the small drawing room Patricia--or Patsy, as she
preferred to be called--was seated at the piano softly playing the one
"piece" the music teacher had succeeded in drilling into her flighty
head by virtue of much patience and perseverance. In a thick cushioned
morris-chair reclined the motionless form of Uncle John, a chubby little
man in a gray suit, whose features were temporarily eclipsed by the
newspaper that was spread carefully over them. Occasionally a gasp or a
snore from beneath the paper suggested that the little man was
"snoozing" as he sometimes gravely called it, instead of listening to
the music.

Major Doyle sat opposite, stiffly erect, with his admiring eyes full
upon Patsy. At times he drummed upon the arms of his chair in unison
with the music, nodding his grizzled head to mark the time as well as to
emphasize his evident approbation. Patsy had played this same piece from
start to finish seven times since dinner, because it was the only one
she knew; but the Major could have listened to it seven hundred times
without the flicker of an eyelash. It was not that he admired so much
the "piece" the girl was playing as the girl who was playing the
"piece." His pride in Patsy was unbounded. That she should have
succeeded at all in mastering that imposing looking instrument--making
it actually "play chunes"--was surely a thing to wonder at. But then,
Patsy could do anything, if she but tried.

Suddenly Uncle John gave a dreadful snort and sat bolt upright, gazing
at his companions with a startled look that melted into one of benign
complacency as he observed his surroundings and realized where he was.