"Uncle is very forgetful," the girl began. There was some sewing on the table, and she had already taken it up. Richard felt shy and ill at ease, but his companion showed no symptom of discomposure. He smiled vaguely, not knowing what to reply.
"I suppose he walks a good deal," he said at length.
"Yes, he does." There was a second pause. The girl continued to sew quietly; she appeared to be indifferent whether they conversed or not.
"Oh, no!" She laughed, and looked at his eyes. "I sing a very little bit."
"Classical, I suppose." Her tone implied that classical songs were outside the region of the practical.
"I don't think I care much for classical music."
"Should I? Why?" She laughed gaily, like a child amused. "Hope Temple's songs are nice, and 'The River of Years,' I'm just learning that. Do you sing?"
"No--I don't really sing. I haven't got a piano at my place--now."
"What a pity! I suppose you know a great deal about music?"
"I wish I did!" said Richard, trying awkwardly not to seem flattered.
"Mr. Aked seems to have a fine lot of French novels. I wish I had as many."
"And this is the latest, eh?" He picked up "L'Abbé Tigrane," which lay on the table by the sewing.
"Yes, I fancy uncle got that last night."
"I! No, indeed!" Again she laughed. "You mustn't imagine, Mr. Larch," she went on, and her small eyes twinkled, "that I am at all like uncle. I'm not. I've only kept house for him a little while, and we are really--quite different."
"Well," the quiet voice was imperceptibly raised, "I'm not a great reader, and I know nothing of books. I'm not clever, you know. I can't bear poetry."
"Yes, sometimes a novel. I'm reading 'East Lynne.' Uncle bought it for me the other day."
There was a timid tap at the door, and a short, stout servant with red hands and a red face entered; her rough, chubby forearms were bare, and she carried a market basket. "Please, 'm," she ejaculated meaningly and disappeared. Mr. Aked's niece excused herself, and when she returned Richard looked at his watch and rose.
"I'm very sorry about uncle--but it's just like him."
"Yes, isn't it?" Richard answered, and they exchanged a smile.
He walked down Carteret Street humming a tuneless air and twirling his stick. Mr. Aked's niece had proved rather disappointing. She was an ordinary girl, and evidently quite unsusceptible to the artistic influences which subtly emanated from Mr. Aked. But with the exception of his landlady and his landlady's daughter, she was the first woman whom Richard had met in London, and the interview had been somewhat of an ordeal.