Almost every evening he would sit down at his piano and start playing idly.

As a rule he played dance music, popular songs from Broadway.

But sometimes leaning back he would drift into other music.

And though his hand would bungle and only sketch it, so to speak--in his black eyes, scowling slightly over the smoke of his cigar, would come a look which Ethel liked.

But vaguely she felt that Amy did not, that it even made her uneasy.