She stood still, but withdrew her hand a little as if repelling the hint his words conveyed; whereupon he immediately selected a cigar, saying as he did so, "So you were born in summer, --the time of all good things. Well, 'Thy dearest wish, wish I thee,' and may it not pass in the smoking!"
She swept him a deep, mock courtesy.
Afer this, Ruth sat a rather silent listener to the conversation. She knew that they were discussing the pros and cons of the advantages for a bachelor of club life over home life. She knew that Louis was ****** some brilliantly cynical remarks, --asserting that the apparent privacy of the latter was delusive, and that the reputed publicity of the former was deceptive, as it was even more isolated than the latter. All of which the doctor laughed down as untruly epigrammatic.
"Then there is only one loophole for the poor bachelor," Mrs. Levice summed up, "and that is to marry. Louis complains of the club, and thinks himself a sort of cynosure in a large household. You, Doctor, complain of the want of coseyness in a bachelor establishment. To state it simply, you need a wife."
"And oust my Pooh-ba! Madame, you do not know what a treasure that old soldier of mine is. If I call him a veritable Martha, I shall but be paying proper tribute to the neatness with which he keeps my house and linen; he entertains my palate as deliciously as a Corinne her salon, and--is never in my way or thoughts. Can you commend me any woman so self-abnegatory?"
"Many women, but no wife, I am glad to say. But you need one."
"So! Pray explain wherein the lack is apparent."
"Oh, not to me, but--"
"You mean you consider a wife an adjunct to a doctor's certificate."
"It is a great guarantee with women," put in Louis, "as a voucher against impatience with their own foibles. They think only home practice can secure the adequate tolerance. Eh, Aunt Esther?"
"Nonsense, Louis!" interrupted Mr. Levice; "what has that to do with skill?"
"Skill is one thing; the manner of man is another--with women."
"That is worth considering--or adding to the curriculum," observed Kemp, turning his steady, quiet gaze upon Arnold.
Ruth noticed that the two men had taken the same position, --vis- -vis to each other in their respective easy-chairs, their heads thrown back upon the cushions, their arms resting on the chair-arms. Something in Louis's veiled eyes caused her to interpose.
"Will you play, Louis?" she asked.
"Not to-night, ma cousine," he replied, glancing at her from lowered lids.
"It is not optional with you to-night, Louis," she insisted playfully, rising; "we--desire you to play."
"Or be punished for treason? Has your Majesty any other behest?"
"No; I shall even turn the leaves for you."
"The leaves of what, --memory? I'll play by rote."
He strolled over to the piano and sat down. He struck a few random chords, some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung them together and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that faded into a bird-like hallelujah, --swelling now into grandeur, then fainting into sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering that when the closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruth drew a long sigh with the last lingering vibrations.
"What is that?" asked Levice, looking curiously at his nephew, who, turning on his music-chair, took up his cigar again.
"That," he replied, flecking an ash from his coat lappel, "has no name that I know of; some people call it 'The Soul.'"
A pained sensation shot through Ruth at his words, for he had plainly been improvising, and he must have felt what he had played.
"Here, Ruth, sing this," he continued, turning round and picking up a sheet of music.
"What?" she asked without moving.
"'The bugle;' I like it."
Kemp looked at her expectantly. He said he had not known she sang; but since she did, he was sure her voice was contralto.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because your face is contralto."
She turned from his eyes as if they hurt her, and walked over to Louis's side.
