I tried to understand Lady
Osprey's game of patience, but it didn't appear that Lady Osprey was
anxious for me to understand her patience. I came to the verge of taking
my leave.
"You needn't go yet," said Beatrice, abruptly.
She walked across to the piano, took a pile of music from the cabinet
near, surveyed Lady Osprey's back, and with a gesture to me dropped it
all deliberately on to the floor.
"Must talk," she said, kneeling close to me as I helped her to pick it
up. "Turn my pages. At the piano."
"I can't read music."
"Turn my pages."
Presently we were at the piano, and Beatrice was playing with noisy
inaccuracy. She glanced over her shoulder and Lady Osprey had resumed
her patience. The old lady was very pink, and appeared to be absorbed in
some attempt to cheat herself without our observing it.
"Isn't West Africa a vile climate?" "Are you going to live there?" "Why
are you going?"
Beatrice asked these questions in a low voice and gave me no chance to
answer. Then taking a rhythm from the music before her, she said--
"At the back of the house is a garden--a door in the wall--on the lane.
Pages:
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551