"It was beautiful, Ellen . . . really beautiful. I had no idea you played so well."
The girl, blushing, turned and smiled at the cousin who lay back so indolently among the cushions of the sofa, so beautiful, so charming in the black gown from Worth. The smile conveyed a world of shy and inarticulate gratitude. The girl was happy because she understood that Lily knew. To the others it was just music.
"Your daughter is an artist, Hattie," remarked Julia Shane. "You should be proud of her."
The mother, her stout figure tightly laced, sat very straight in her stiff chair, her work-stained hands resting awkwardly in her lap. Her face beamed with the pride of a woman who was completely primitive, for whom nothing in this world existed save her children.
"And now, Ellen," she said, "play the McKinley Funeral March. You play it so well."
The girl's young face clouded suddenly. "But it's not McKinley's Funeral March, Mama," she protested. "It's Chopin's. It's not the same thing."
"Well, you know what I mean . . . the one you played at the Memorial Service for McKinley." She turned to Lily, her pride written in every line of her strong face. "You know, Ellen was chosen tc play at the services for McKinley. Mark Hanna himself made a speech from the same platform."
