"You were playing some Russian music that I knew.

Your man ordered me off the premises"-- smiling a little--"so I didn't hear as much as I should have liked." "Is that a hint ?" he asked whimsically.
"A broad one.

Please take it." He hesitated a moment.

Then-- "Very well," he said abruptly.
He rose and led the way into an adjoining room.
Like the hall they had just quitted, it was pleasantly illumined by candles in silver sconces, and had evidently been arranged to serve exclusively as a music-room, for it contained practically no furniture beyond a couple of chairs, and a beautiful mahogany cabinet, of which the doors stood open, revealing sliding shelves crammed full of musical scores.
A grand piano was so placed that the light from either window or candles would fall comfortably upon the music-desk; and on a stool beside it rested a violin case.
Trent opened the case, and, lifting the violin from is cushiony bed of padded satin, fingered it caressingly.
"Can you read accompaniments ?" he asked, flashing the question at her with his usual abruptness.
"Yes." Sara's answer came simply, minus the mock-modest tag: "A little," or "I'll do my best," which most people seem to think it incumbent on them to add, in the circumstances.
It is one of the mysteries of convention why, when you are perfectly aware that you can do a thing, and do it well, you are expected to depreciate your capability under penalty of being accounted overburdened with conceit should you fail to do so.
"Good." Trent pulled out an armful of music from the cabinet and looked through it rapidly.
"We'll have some of these." ("These" being several suites for violin and piano.) Sara's lips twitched.

He was testing her rather highly, since the pianoforte score of the suites in question was by no means easy.