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d shiver. Then without speaking, she entered the little parlor, he following.
They sat far apart. Her manner increased the gap immeasurably. Micky felt dimly that speech would partake of the nature of transmission over a long-distance telephone to the Klondike. However, he cleared his throat with some diffidence. It was something of an odd sensation for him.
"You were playin'," he ventured.
"Yes," somewhat pointedly. "I was."
"Well," he continued, "don't let me interrupt you. I like music."
"Oh, do you?" indifferently. "Sorry, but the pieces I was playin' are new ones. I don't know 'em well enough to play 'em before company."
"So?" he continued, calmly ignoring the reiterated hint. "Well, try some of the old ones. They're good enough for me." He watched her face eagerly.
It did not relax. "I think I've forgotten the old ones, Mr. O'Byrn," she said slowly.
"But I haven't," somewhat wistfully. "And it was not so long ago."
"Not so long ago!" her blue eyes brightening. "Mr. O'Byrn, it was longer ago than you seem to think."
"Yes, I guess it was," dejectedly. "It's a long way from 'Micky' to 'Mister' after all."
The girl's lip curled. "It's your own fault." she retorted. Then with a sudden burst of hurt resentment, "I couldn't believe it at first," with an involuntary little shiver, "when I saw you that night. My brother was pretty mad, I can tell you, said I ought to shake you. Such a sight!"
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