“My dear, it is too lovely,” she began.  “So opportune!  Do tell me how long you have known Tryon?”

The girl caught her breath and gathered her wits together.  She looked up shyly into the pleasantly curious eyes of Mrs. Bowman, and a faint gleam of mischief came into her face.

“Why——­” Her hesitation seemed only natural, and Mrs. Bowman decided that there must be something very special between these two.  “Why, not so very long, Mrs. Bowman—­not as long as you have known him.”  She finished with a smile which Mrs. Bowman decided was charming.

“Oh, you sly child!” she exclaimed, playfully tapping the round cheek with her fan.  “Did you meet him when he was abroad this summer?”

“Oh, no, indeed!” said the girl, laughing now in spite of herself.  “Oh, no; it was after his return.”

“Then it must have been in the Adirondacks,” went on the determined interlocutor.  “Were you at——­” But the girl interrupted her.  She could not afford to discuss the Adirondacks, and the sight of the grand piano across the room had given her an idea.

“Mr. Dunham told me that you would like me to play something for you, as your musician friend has failed you.  I shall be very glad to, if it will help you any.  What do you care for?  Something serious or something gay?  Are you fond of Chopin, or Beethoven, or something more modern?”

Scenting a possible musical prodigy, and desiring most earnestly to give her guests a treat, Mrs. Bowman exclaimed in enthusiasm: 

“Oh, how lovely of you!  I hardly dared to ask, as Tryon was uncertain whether you would be willing.  Suppose you give us something serious now, and later, when the men come in, we’ll have the gay music.  Make your own choice, though I’m very fond of Chopin, of course.”

Without another word, the girl moved quietly over to the piano and took her seat.  For just a moment her fingers wandered caressingly over the keys, as if they were old friends and she were having an understanding with them, then she began a Chopin Nocturne.  Her touch was firm and velvety, and she brought out a bell-like tone from the instrument that made the little company of women realize that the player was mistress of her art.  Her graceful figure and lovely head, with its simple ripples and waves of hair, were more noticeable than ever as she sat there, controlling the exquisite harmonies.  Even Mrs. Blackwell stopped fanning and looked interested.  Then she whispered to Mrs. Bowman:  “A very sweet young girl.  That’s a pretty piece she’s playing.”  Mrs. Blackwell was sweet and commonplace and old-fashioned.

Mrs. Parker Bowman sat up with a pink glow in her cheeks and a light in her eyes.  She began to plan how she might keep this acquisition and exploit her among her friends.  It was her delight to bring out new features in her entertainments.

“We shall simply keep you playing until you drop from weariness,” she announced ecstatically, when the last wailing, sobbing, soothing chord had died away; and the other ladies murmured, “How delightful!” and whispered their approval.