She turned away abruptly, complaining of the heat, and went to the piano.
Lucy sat listening, with a book on her knee.

Everything seemed to have grown strangely unreal in this hot silence of the villa--the high room with its painted walls--the marvellous prospect outside, just visible in sections through the half-closed shutters--herself and her companion.

Mrs.
Burgoyne played snatches of Brahms and Chopin; but her fingers stumbled more than usual.

Her attention seemed to wander.
Inevitably the girl's memory went back to the wild things which Alice Manisty had said to her.

In vain she rebuked herself.