Nell smiled.
"I think it is wonderful that they keep their rooms as clean as they do,
seeing that every time one opens the windows the blacks pour in----"
"Like Zulus into a zareba--if that's what they call it. Yes; no denizen
of the Buildings would feel strange in Africa, for, whatever the
weather may be, the blacks are always with us. Should you say that this
is done on this side?"
He held up the slice on the toasting fork for her inspection.
"Beautifully! Turn it, please."
"I hope to Heaven I shan't drop it! There you are! I knew I should."
"Well, you can keep that one for yourself," said Nell, laughing.
He listened to the laugh, with his head a little on one side.
"I like to hear that," he said, almost to himself, "though, sometimes, I
wonder how you can do it--you, who must always be longing for the fresh
air--for the country."
Nell winced.
"What is the use of longing for that which one cannot have?" she said
lightly, but checking a sigh.
He looked at her quickly, strangely, and a faint dash of color rose to
his pale face.
"That's true philosophy, at any rate," he said, in a low voice; "but,
all the same, one can't help longing sometimes."
As he spoke, he stole a glance at the beautiful face; and, in looking,
forgot the toast, which promptly showed its resentment of his neglect by
"catching," and filling the apartment with the smell of scorched bread.
"I think that's burning," said Nell.
"And I'm sure of it," he said penitently. "If ever you are in doubt as
to the statement that man is a useless animal, set me to some simple
task, Miss Lorton, and I'll prove it beyond question. Never mind, it's
my slice, and charcoal is extremely wholesome."
"There's another; and do be careful! And how are you getting on?"
He jerked his head toward the sitting room above, where the piano was.
"The cantata? Slowly, slowly," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes it goes,
like a two-year-old; at others it drags and creeps along, and more often
it stops altogether. You haven't heard it lately; perhaps that's the
reason I'm sticking. I notice that I always get on better and faster
after you--and Lorton--have been up to mark progress. Perhaps you'll
come up this evening? It's cruel to ask you, I know, for you must hate
the sound of my piano and fiddle, just as much as I hate the sound of
Mrs. Jones spanking Tommy, or the whizzing of the sewing machine of that
poor girl in the next room. And you must hear them, too--you, who have
been so used to the quiet of the country, the music of the sea, and the
humming of bees! Yes, it is harder for you, Miss Lorton, than for any of
the rest of us; and I often stop in the middle of the cantata and think
how you must suffer."