Chapter 18 - Page 2

of
having been treated with dryness by her aunt's maid, through
whose hands she had slipped perhaps a little too mistrustfully
and with an effect of plumage but the more lustrous. The advent
of a guest was in itself far from disconcerting; she had not yet
divested herself of a young faith that each new acquaintance
would exert some momentous influence on her life. By the time she
had made these reflexions she became aware that the lady at the
piano played remarkably well. She was playing something of
Schubert's--Isabel knew not what, but recognised Schubert--and
she touched the piano with a discretion of her own. It showed
skill, it showed feeling; Isabel sat down noiselessly on the
nearest chair and waited till the end of the piece. When it was
finished she felt a strong desire to thank the player, and rose
from her seat to do so, while at the same time the stranger
turned quickly round, as if but just aware of her presence.

"That's very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful
still," said Isabel with all the young radiance with which she
usually uttered a truthful rapture.

"You don't think I disturbed Mr. Touchett then?" the musician
answered as sweetly as this compliment deserved. "The house is so
large and his room so far away that I thought I might venture,
especially as I played just--just du bout des doigts."

"She's a Frenchwoman," Isabel said to herself; "she says that as
if she were French." And this supposition made the visitor more
interesting to our speculative heroine. "I hope my uncle's doing
well," Isabel added. "I should think that to hear such lovely
music as that would really make him feel better."

The lady smiled and discriminated. "I'm afraid there are moments
in life when even Schubert has nothing to say to us. We must
admit, however, that they are our worst."

"I'm not in that state now then," said Isabel. "On the contrary I
should be so glad if you would play something more."

"If it will give you pleasure--delighted." And this obliging
person took her place again and struck a few chords, while Isabel
sat down nearer the instrument. Suddenly the new-comer stopped
with her hands on the keys, half-turning and looking over her
shoulder. She was forty years old and not pretty, though her
expression charmed. "Pardon me," she said; "but are you the niece
--the young American?"

"I'm my aunt's niece," Isabel replied with simplicity.

The lady at the piano sat still a moment longer, casting her air
of interest over her shoulder. "That's very well; we're
compatriots." And then she began to play.

"Ah then she's not French," Isabel murmured; and as the opposite
supposition had made her romantic it might have seemed