sitting-room. He flung himself down on the big bed with his right arm across his eyes and lay still. He stayed there till Valerie stopped at ten o’clock. He heard her go off along the hall. He wondered if she were staying here. He wondered why on earth a daughter of Davenport Carr had come to Dargaville to go on the paper, to go on any paper anywhere when she could play like that. After a minute or two of speculation he got up and went downstairs.
It was not till the next day at lunch time that Valerie got a chance to ask Michael who the singer was, and if there was anyone in the place who could tune the piano.
That evening she went down to dinner ahead of Bob. They were under no obligation to eat at the same time. She was hardly seated when Mac entered the room and walked up to her table. It was the first time she had seen him at close range. She smiled up at him rather uncertainly. The hard light in his eyes did not change.
“Good-evening, Mr. MacAlarney,” she began tentatively.
“Mr. WHAT?” he roared.
Then her face broke into the smile that was the passkey to the hearts of all who saw it light up that way.
“Am I to call you Mac?”
“Well you bloody well do, don’t you?”
“It is easier,” she said lightly, not in the least disturbed by his superfluous word.
“You want the piano tuned?” he went on gruffly.
“Well, if I might pay ———”
“Damn the bloody expense. I’ll have it done if you want it.”
“You don’t mind my playing?”
“No. Play whenever you want to.” And without another word he turned and walked heavily off.
