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Updated: May 6, 2025
Mortimer!" "Mrs. Hignett! What are you doing here?" Mrs. Hignett drew herself up stiffly. "What an odd question, Mr. Mortimer! I am in my own house!" "But you rented it to me for the summer. At least, your son did." "Eustace let you Windles for the summer!" said Mrs. Hignett, incredulously. Jane Hubbard returned from the drawing-room, where she had been switching off the orchestrion.
There is rifle-shooting, there is fortune-telling, there are games of pitch and toss, and swings, and French bagatelle; and, to crown all, a wonderful orchestrion that goes by steam. The water is boiled for the public's tea, and at the same time thrilling strains of melody are flung into the air.
On his way home he was very apt to turn in at the wicker gates of a typical German Rathskellar where he was unmolested; where the blustering pipes of a colossal orchestrion brayed through an aria from Trovatore with more sound than sentiment and all unmindful of modulation. He was at home by midnight, for the beer and the bravura ceased to flow at the witching hour.
But at this moment, from the regions downstairs, there suddenly burst upon the silent night such a whirlwind of sound as effectually dissipated the tense emotion in the room. Somebody had touched off the orchestrion in the drawing-room, and that willing instrument had begun again in the middle of a bar at the point where it had been switched off.
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