"
It was Lord Holme's habit to speak irreverently of anything he happened
to admire.
"She had reason to cry. Miss Filberte's accompaniment was a tragedy. She
never comes here again."
"What's the row with her? I thought her fingers got about over the piano
awful quick."
"They did--on the wrong notes."
She came and sat down beside him.
"You don't understand music, Fritz, thank goodness."
"I know I don't. But why thank what's-his-name?"
"Because the men that do are usually such anaemic, dolly things, such
shaved poodles with their Sunday bows on."
"What about that chap Pierce? He's up to all the scales and thingumies,
isn't he?"
"Robin--"
"Pierce I said."
"And I said Robin."
Lord Holme frowned and stuck out his under jaw. When he was irritated he
always made haste to look like a prize-fighter. His prominent
cheek-bones, and the abnormal development of bone in the lower part of
his face, helped the illusion whose creation was begun by his expression.
"Look here, Vi," he said gruffly. "If you get up to any nonsense there'll
be another Carey business. I give you the tip, and you can just take it
in time. Don't you make any mistake. I'm not a Brenford, or a
Godley-Halstoun, or a Pennisford, to sit by and--"
"What a pity it is that your body's so big and your intelligence so
small!" she interrupted gently. "Why aren't there Sandow exercises for
increasing the brain?"
"I've quite enough brain to rub along with very well.
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