"Don't spoil it," advised Alexia coolly, with a sidelong gaze at his
face. "Well, of course I mean everybody except Polly; and I'm sure,
Pickering, it isn't my fault that she didn't come; Polly always was
queer about some things."

Pickering did not answer, but bestowed his glance on the programme in
his hand.

"And now she is queerer than ever," said Alexia, glad to think that the
dainty blue affair on her head, she called a bonnet, was already doing
its work, as she heard a lady in the seat back of them, question if it
were not one of the newest of Madame Marchaud's creations. So she sat
more erect, and played nonchalantly with her fan. "Yes, and it's all
because of those dreadfully horrid music lessons."

Pickering coughed, and rattled his programme ominously, which Alexia
pretended not to hear.

"Why Mr. King lets her do it, I can't see," she went on.

"Do stop," said Pickering shortly, and casting a nervous glance back of
her shoulder.

"Never mind if they do hear," said Alexia sweetly, "all the better; then
they'll know we don't approve of her doing so, at any rate."

"I do approve," said Pickering, his face flaming, "if she wants to; and
we've got to, any way, because we can't help ourselves. I do wish,
Alexia, you wouldn't discuss our friends in this public way."