He was back in his own chair by now and his sister breathed a little more freely.

“Pig?” he asked.

“Oh, because you weren’t there,” said Paula.  “Because I didn’t sing before, when you asked me to.”

“Dearest!” John remonstrated,—­pleased though with the apology, you could see with half an eye,—­“it was inexcusable of me to have asked you.  It was a dull crowd from a musical point of view.  The only thing I minded was having, myself, put you into a position where you had to refuse.  I am glad you were able to make it up to yourself after.”

“That was not why I didn’t,” Paula said.  She always spoke rather deliberately and never interrupted any one.  “I mean it wasn’t because the others weren’t especially musical.  But I couldn’t have sung without asking Novelli to play.  And he couldn’t have refused—­being new and a little on trial you know.  And that drawing-room piano, so badly out of tune, would have been terrible for him.  There’s no knowing what he mightn’t have done.”

John’s face beamed triumph.  “I might have known you had an unselfish reason for it,” he said.  He didn’t look at his sister but, of course, the words slanted her way.

It was perfectly characteristic of Miss Wollaston that she did not, however, make any immediate attempt to set herself right.  She attended first very competently to all of Paula’s wants in the way of breakfast and saw her fairly launched on her chilled grapefruit.  Then she said, “A man is coming to tune the piano this morning.”

It was more than a statement of fact.  Indeed I despair of conveying to you all the implications and moral reflections which Miss Wollaston contrived to pack into that simple sentence.

The drawing-room piano was what an artillerist would speak of as one of the sensitive points along the family front.  It had been a present to the Wollaston household from the eldest of John’s brothers, the unmarried one Miss Wollaston had kept house for so many years before he died; the last present, it turned out, he ever made to anybody.  Partly perhaps, because it was a sacred object, the Wollaston children took to treating it rather irreverently.  The “Circassian grand” was one of its nicknames and the “Siamese Elephant” another.  It did glare in the otherwise old-fashioned Dearborn Avenue drawing-room and its case did express a complete recklessness of expense rather than any more austere esthetic impulse.

Paula ignored it in rather a pointed way; being a musician she might have been expected to see that it was kept in tune.  She had a piano of her own up in the big room at the top of the house that had once been the nursery and over this instrument, she made, Miss Wollaston felt, a silly amount of fuss.  Supposedly expert tuners were constantly being called in to do things to it and nothing they did ever seemed to afford Paula any satisfaction.

The aura that surrounded Miss Wollaston’s remark included, then, the conviction that the drawing-room piano, being a sacred memory, couldn’t be out of tune in the first place; that Paula, in the second, ought to have attended to it; and third (this is rather complex but I guarantee the accuracy of it) the fact that it was to be tuned this morning, really made it a perfectly possible instrument for Mr. Novelli to have played upon last night.