The fact that it is easier to make new friends than to break with them was a discovery that was causing Rose O'Hara many uncomfortable moments When one has achieved an intimacy with a chance acquaintance, and then finds it unsatisfactory, it is not so easy a matter gracefully to to evade its responsibilities, especially when the inclination is not shared by the other person, who sees no reason for the discontinuance of a pleasant relationship.
Miss O'Hara was realizing the unwisdom of indiscriminate feminine intimacies, and it was making her quite miserable. There are few things that can cause more unhappiness than the disillusionments of friendship, and Rose was suffering acutely from one of the keenest disappointments in that respect that she had ever known.
She could not yet bring herself to believe that Mrs. Darrell was really involved in this mélange of murder, anarchy, and theft, and at the same time she could not entirely ignore those damaging bits of evidence against her which circumstances had recently brought to light.
The morning after Gaines had told her of Monsieur Arnold's invasion of Mrs. Darrell's rooms, she felt a disinclination to meet this new friend, whom she had found both charming and congenial. So she decided to remain in her own rooms all day, although she was well aware what it entailed. The ubiquitous Miss Hodgkins would, she knew, insist upon her going over a lot of accounts, and would also urge her to outline the answers to various notes that should have been attended to long ago.
As she was wondering how she was to escape this, after an hour or two of it—borne, it must be said, with more or less impatience—her quick ear was attracted by the near-by sound of a piano touched by a practiced hand. Whoever it was was playing exquisitely, and Rose listened, enthralled, enchanted.
While she was questioning who the player might be, a maid entered the room with fresh towels, and in response to an inquiry told her that the music came from Miss MacKenzie's suite down the corridor.
Now, Rose was temperamental; and also, as she had been informing herself for days, she was desperately hungry for some good music; therefore, as usual, she followed her impulses, and, stepping along the hall, knocked upon the door.
The floodtide of music ceased abruptly, and the door was opened by Sonia MacKenzie herself. If she felt surprised at seeing the disdainful singer at the door, she gave no evidence of it, but politely urged her to enter.
“I haven't any errand, and I haven't any excuse,” said Rose, seating herself, and spreading out her hands with her winning smile—a faintly deprecating smile for the moment; “but I heard music—real music, too. One has that experience only once in a blue moon, you know, and so I couldn't resist the impulse to knock on the door and ask if I might please come in and hear more of it.”
“I am delighted that you did,” returned Miss MacKenzie, but without any particular enthusiasm.
“I had no idea that you were a musician,” went on Rose, undeterred. “I have been longing for days to hear some one play, and every night I have been dreaming of orchestras. One is starved in a place like this. But surely you are a professional?”
“No—only an amateur.” But now Miss MacKenzie seemed to thaw a little. “I once had dreams of being a professional, but nothing less than being among the stars would have satisfied me. I wished to occupy the same position as a pianist that you fill as a singer, but,” with a touch of bitterness in her voice, “I realized in time that I did not have the qualities. My technique is unassailable, of course, but I lack something in emotion, in poetic imagination, as you will soon discover.”
“Ah, then you are going to be good enough to play for me?” cried Rose, delighted. “And I should love to sing for you if you care to have me.”
A faint flush of pride and pleasure showed on Sonia MacKenzie's cheek.
“That is an honor that any one would prize,” she Lid with a quaint and rather stilted courtesy; and for the first time Rose noticed the trace of an accent in her voice, an accent that in some way did not suggest the Scotch burr. “I will play for you first, and then perhaps you will let me accompany you.”
She whirled about on the piano stool, and at once began to play.
For an hour Rose listened, enchanted; and then she sang, realizing as she did so that she had rarely been accompanied better.
“How can I thank you?” she cried at last, when they paused for rest. “You are an artist, and I think you underrate your own abilities.”