"
"She's a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself; "she says that as
if she were French." And this supposition made the visitor more
interesting to our speculative heroine. "I hope my uncle's doing
well," Isabel added. "I should think that to hear such lovely music as
that would really make him feel better."
The lady smiled and discriminated. "I'm afraid there are moments
in life when even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must admit,
however, that they are our worst."
"I'm not in that state now then," said Isabel. "On the contrary I
should be so glad if you would play something more."
"If it will give you pleasure- delighted." And this obliging
person took her place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel
sat down nearer the instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped with
her hands on the keys, half-turning and looking over her shoulder. She
was forty years old and not pretty, though her expression charmed.
"Pardon me," she said; "but are you the niece- the young American?"
"I'm my aunt's niece," Isabel replied with simplicity.
The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air
of interest over her shoulder.
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