The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. " "Hush!" replied Mrs.
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