Wood made no reply; but, hastily kissing his weeping daughter, and bidding her be of good cheer, hurried off. I shall borrow it and apply it to you, Hilary. Mischief bubbled up in her. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses.
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