“Nor am I now,” he answered. “Morning, Mom. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. Then he understood. “Good-bye,” he said earnestly. Presently McClintock came in. She had maintained a B in each subject except History, which she occasionally felt compelled to strive for A’s in, considering she had lived through most of it. It’s not like we’re getting married. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. He had made it even easier by walking up the steps instead of taking the elevator. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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