taken by college boys on their first call. Her position and her imposing surroundings—yes, her kindliness in noticing him at all—might surely save her from informalities that almost shaped into impertinences. Yet, on the other hand, nothing bored one more than a young man who openly showed himself intimidated. What was there behind this one? More than she had thought? Well, if so, none the worse. Time might tell.
"So Miss Leffingwell plays?" He flared out his blue-white smile. "Let me learn my lesson page by page."
"Yes, she plays," returned Medora Phillips briefly. "Guess what," she continued presently, half placated.
They were again side by side on a sofa, each with an elbow on its back and the elbows near together. Nor was Medora Phillips, though plump, at all the graceless, dumpy little body she sometimes taxed herself with being.
"What? Oh, piano, I suppose."
"Piano!"
"What's wrong?"
"The piano is common: it's assumed."
"Oh, she performs on something unusual? Xylophone?"
"Be serious."
"Trombone? I've seen wonders done on that in a 'lady orchestra'."
"Don't be grotesque." She drew her dark eyebrows into protest. "What a sight!—a delicate young girl playing a trombone!"
