"Ah, but it isn't. Your son and at least one true friend are outside.
Listen!"

"No," Allison was saying, "I got well acquainted with surprisingly few
people over there. You see, I always chummed with Dad."

"Bless him," said Francesca, impulsively.

"Have I done well?" asked the Colonel, anxiously. "It was hard work,
alone."

"Indeed you have done well. I hear that he is a great artist."

"He's more than that--he's a man. He's clean and a good shot, and he
isn't afraid of anything. Someway, to me, a man who played the fiddle
always seemed, well--lady-like, you know. But Allison isn't."

"No," answered Francesca, demurely, "he isn't. Do I infer that it is a
disgrace to be ladylike?"

"Not for a woman," laughed the Colonel. "Why do you pretend to
misunderstand me? You always know what I mean."

After dinner, when the coffee had been served, Allison took out his
violin, of his own accord. "You haven't asked me to play, but I'm going
to. Who is going to play my accompaniment? Don't all speak at once."

Rose went to the piano and looked over his music. "I'll try. Fortunately
I'm familiar with some of this."