"Yes, and the piano. She plays the harp very well, also."
We talked for a while and then John took me to see his library. I noticed that he helped him self to another drink before leaving the room. There was nothing in this, of course, but his manner of doing it was queer; quick and furtive, as if he wanted to gulp it down before anybody came in. We spent the rest of the hour looking at his old volumes, and he was surprised to see that I knew books, too. Then, says John:
"Come on, Frank. It's five. We can go back to the studio now."
Edith had finished her painting and was sitting on the divan talking with Miss Dalghren. The old maître d'hòtel brought in the tea things and a decanter of whisky. Miss Dalghren poured the tea.
"How do you like it?" she asked me.
"Perhaps Frank would rather have whisky," said Edith.
"No," I answered, "I prefer the tea."
She handed me a cup and I stirred it slowly. Then I felt Edith's eyes on me and looked up. She gave her crooked little smile.
"Really, Frank," she said, "you and John are as like as you can be."
"On the outside, perhaps," I answered.
Her deep grey eyes looked into mine as if she was trying to see all that was inside. Usually, when a person goes prospecting in my thoughts this way I pull the dead-light over my "lanterns of the soul." But there was something here that went through the shutter like radium. Perhaps it was
