Only the man's
eyes appeared alive; they were fixed upon Lydia at the piano. She was
playing some light tuneful melody, with a superabundance of trills
and runs. Jim did not know Lydia played; and the knowledge of this
trivial accomplishment seemed to put her still further beyond his
reach. He did not know, either, that she had acquired her somewhat
indifferent skill after long years of dull practice, and for the
single purpose of diverting the man, who sat watching her with
bright, furtive eyes.... Presently she arose from the piano and
crossed the room to his side. She bent over him and kissed him on his
bald forehead, her white hands clinging to his shoulders. Jim saw the
man shake off those hands with a rough gesture; saw the grieved look
on her face; saw the man follow her slight figure with his eyes, as
she stooped under pretext of mending the fire. But he could not hear
the words which passed between them.
"You pretend to love me," Bolton was saying. "Why don't you do what I
want you to?"
"If you'd like to go away from Brookville, father, I will go with
you. You need me!"
"That's where you're dead wrong, my girl: I don't need you. What I do
need is freedom! You stifle me with your fussy attentions. Give me
some money; I'll go away and not bother you again."
Whereat Lydia had cried out--a little hurt cry, which reached the
ears of the watcher outside.
"Don't leave me, father! I have no one but you in all the world--no
one."
"And you've never even told me how much money you have," the man went
on in a whining voice.
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