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By her prettily exaggerated description of a heated, perspiring young man, darting to and fro, and muttering to himself in German, her hearers, Maurice included, were highly diverted and no one more than Mrs. Cayhill. "You puss, you puss!" she cried, wiping her eyes and shaking a finger at the naughty girl.
Before leaving her bedroom the following morning, Ephie wrote on her scented pink paper a short letter, which began: "Dear Mr. Schilsky," and ended with: "Your sincere friend, Euphemia Stokes Cayhill." In this letter, she "failed to understand" his conduct of the previous evening, and asked him for an explanation.
Cayhill, Maurice found himself standing beside Johanna, the truth of Dove's simile was obvious to him.
Ephie was limp and heavy going up; but no sooner did she catch sight of Mrs. Cayhill than, with a cry, she rushed from the young man's side, and threw herself into her mother's arms. "Oh, mummy, mummy!" Downstairs, in the rain-soaked street, Maurice found the droschke-driver waiting for his fare.
"Look here, Miss Ephie," said James; "the next time you have to go out alone, just send for me, and I'll take care of you." "Or me" said Dove. "You have only to let me know." "No, no, Mr. Dove!" cried Mrs. Cayhill. "You do far too much for her as it is. You'll spoil her altogether." But at this, several of the young men exclaimed loudly: that would be impossible.
Every one but you could see what was the matter with him. Mrs. Tully told me about it afterwards. Why, he never took his eyes off her." "Oh, I'm sure you are mistaken," said Johanna earnestly, and was silent from sheer surprise. "He has been here so seldom of late," she added after a pause, thinking aloud. "Just for that very reason," replied Mrs. Cayhill, with the same air of wisdom.
"Put down your book, mother, please, and listen to me," continued Johanna, without any outward sign of impatience, and as she spoke, she drew another stocking over her hand. "What IS the matter, Joan? I wish you would let me be," answered Mrs. Cayhill querulously, still without looking up. "It's about Ephie, mother. But you can't hear me if you go on reading." "I can hear well enough," said Mrs.
Cayhill sat in her accustomed corner. Ephie was with the rest of the boarders in the general sitting-room, where Johanna conducted Maurice. Boehmer was paying an evening visit, as well as a very young American, who laughed: "Heh, heh!" at everything that was said, thereby displaying two prominently gold teeth. Mrs.
Cayhill was content; and it began to be plain to Johanna that the greater part of their two years' absence would be spent in this place. Ephie, too, had already had time to learn that, as far as music was concerned, her business was not so much with finishing as with beginning, and that the road to art, which she with all the rest must follow, was a steep one.
Well, make haste now what is it?" "It's Ephie, mother. I am not easy about her lately. I don't think she can be well. She is so unlike herself." "Really, Joan," said Mrs. Cayhill, laughing with an exaggerated carelessness. "I think I should be the first to notice if she were sick. But you like to make yourself important, that's what it is, and to have a finger in every pie.
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