Octavia raised a smiling face.
"I don't play," she said. "I never learned."
"You do not play!" exclaimed Lady Theobald. "You do not play at all!"
"No," answered Octavia. "Not a note. And I think I am rather glad of it; because, if I tried, I should be sure to do it worse than other people. I would rather," with unimpaired cheerfulness, "let some one else do it."
There were a few seconds of dead silence. A dozen people seated around her had heard. Miss Pilcher shuddered; Miss Belinda looked down; Mr. Francis Barold preserved an entirely unmoved countenance, the general impression being that he was very much shocked, and concealed his disgust with an effort.
"My dear," said Lady Theobald, with an air of much condescension and some grave pity, "I should advise you to try to learn. I can assure you that you would find it a great source of pleasure."
"If you could assure me that my friends would find it a great source of pleasure, I might begin," answered the mistaken young person, still cheerfully; "but I am afraid they wouldn't."
It seemed that fate had marked her for disgrace. In half an hour from that time she capped the climax of her indiscretions.
The evening being warm, the French windows had been left open; and, in passing one of them, she stopped a moment to look out at the brightly moonlit grounds.
Barold, who was with her, paused too.
"Looks rather nice, doesn't it?" he said.
"Yes," she replied. "Suppose we go out on the terrace."
He laughed in an amused fashion she did not understand.
"Suppose we do," he said. "By Jove, that's a good idea!"
He laughed as he followed her.
"What amuses you so?" she inquired.
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