"And you are going to work the film?" she asked.
"Yes," he said with pride, "I spend every evening with the operator
at Marsh's in Knarborough. Very interesting I find it--very
interesting indeed. And _you_ are going to play the piano?" he said,
perking his head on one side and looking at her archly.
"So father says," she answered.
"But what do _you_ say?" queried Mr. May.
"I suppose I don't have any say."
"Oh but _surely_. Surely you won't do it if you don't wish to. That
would never do. Can't we hire some young fellow--?" And he turned to
Mr. Houghton with a note of query.
"Alvina can play as well as anybody in Woodhouse," said James. "We
mustn't add to our expenses. And wages in particular--"
"But surely Miss Houghton will have her wage. The labourer is worthy
of his hire. Surely! Even of _her_ hire, to put it in the feminine.
And for the same wage you could get some unimportant fellow with
strong wrists. I'm afraid it will tire Miss Houghton to death--"
"I don't think so," said James. "I don't think so. Many of the turns
she will not need to accompany--"
"Well, if it comes to that," said Mr. May, "I can accompany some of
them myself, when I'm not operating the film. I'm not an expert
pianist--but I can play a little, you know--" And he trilled his
fingers up and down an imaginary keyboard in front of Alvina,
cocking his eye at her smiling a little archly.
"I'm sure," he continued, "I can accompany anything except a man
juggling dinner-plates--and then I'd be afraid of making him drop
the plates. But songs--oh, songs! _Con molto espressione!_"
And again he trilled the imaginary keyboard, and smiled his rather
fat cheeks at Alvina.
She began to like him. There was something a little dainty about
him, when you knew him better--really rather fastidious. A showman,
true enough! Blatant too. But fastidiously so.
He came fairly frequently to Manchester House after this. Miss
Pinnegar was rather stiff with him and he did not like her. But he
was very happy sitting chatting tête-à-tête with Alvina.
"Where is your wife?" said Alvina to him.
"My wife! Oh, don't speak of _her_," he said comically. "She's in
London."
"Why not speak of her?" asked Alvina.
"Oh, every reason for not speaking of her. We don't get on at _all_
well, she and I."
"What a pity," said Alvina.
"Dreadful pity! But what are you to do?" He laughed comically. Then
he became grave. "No," he said. "She's an impossible person."
"I see," said Alvina.
"I'm sure you _don't_ see," said Mr. May. "Don't--" and here he laid
his hand on Alvina's arm--"don't run away with the idea that she's
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