The dinner was at an
end, and she stood with a slim, silken foot outheld for him to replace
the fragile object of search.
They reassembled above, and Mrs. Polder suggested music. "My son says
you are very fond of good music," she addressed Howat Penny. "I can tell
you it is a lovely taste. We have the prettiest records that come.
Isabella, put on _Hark, Hark, the Lark_." She obediently rose, and,
revolving the handle of the talking machine, fixed the grooved, rubber
disk and needle. Howat listened with a stony countenance to the ensuing
strains. Such instruments were his particular detestation. Mrs. Polder
waved her hand dreamily. "Now," she said, "the _Sextette_, and _The End
of a Perfect Day_. No, Mr. Penny would like to hear _Salome_, I'm sure,
with all those cymbals and creepy Eastern tunes." An orgy of sound
followed, applauded--perversely, he was certain--by Mariana. James, he
saw, was as uneasy as himself; but for a totally different reason. He
gazed at Mariana with a fierce devotion patent to the most casual eye;
his expression was tormented with concern and longing.
"When do you return to Harrisburg?" Byron Polder inquired. "My son," he
went on to Howat Penny, "is a practical iron man. I say iron, although
that is no longer the phrase, because of natural associations.
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