His hands were long and thin--the hands of a musician--and the one on
which his chin rested as he leaned against the mantelshelf trembled
slightly. He had been practicing for three hours. He wore an old, a very
old black velvet jacket, and trousers bulgy at the knees and frayed at
the edges; but both were well brushed, and his shirt and collar were
scrupulously clean, though, like the trousers, they; showed signs of
wear.
He occupied a room just above the Lortons' flat, and the sound of his
piano and violin had entered so fully into Nell's daily life that she
was sometimes conscious of a feeling of uneasiness when it ceased, and
often caught herself waiting for it to begin again.
"Is it anything I can do?" she asked again, as he remained silent and
lost in watching her.
"Oh, no!" he said. "I wanted him to help me lift the piano to another
part of the room. The sun comes right on to it now, and it's hot. I
tried by myself, but----" He stopped, as if he were ashamed of his
weakness. "You've no idea how heavy a piano can make itself, especially
on a hot day."
"He will be in directly, and delighted to help you. Meanwhile, help me
make the toast, and stop to tea with us."
"I'll help you with the toast," he said. "But I've had my tea, thanks."
It was a falsehood, for he had run out of tea two days before; but he
was proud as well as poor, which is a mistake.
"Oh, well, you can pretend to drink another cup," said Nell lightly; for
she knew that the truth was not in his statement.
He stuck a slice of bread on a toasting fork, but did not kneel down
before the fire for a moment or two.
"Your room faces the same way as mine," he said. "But it always seems
cooler." His dark eyes wandered round meditatively. Small as the room
was, it had that air of neatness which indicates the presence of a lady.
The tea cloth was white, the few ornaments and pictures--brought from
The Cottage--the small bookcase and wicker-work basket gave a touch of
refinement, which was wholly wanting in his own sparsely furnished and
always untidy den. "Coming in here is like--like coming into another
world. I feel sometimes as if I should like to suggest that you should
charge sixpence for admission. It would be worth that sum to most of the
people in the Buildings, as a lesson in the use and beauty of soap and
water and a duster."