“No,” said the other, laughing, “I fancy not. Talk to him about music—he's a great musician, you know.”
And as her aunt left the room, Helen stole a side glance at the man, who was alone upon the sofa just then. His chin was still resting in his hand, and he was looking at Helen as before. As she glanced at him thus he seemed to be all head, or rather all forehead, for his brow was very high and white, and was set off by heavy black hair.
“He does look interesting,” the girl thought, as she forced a smile and walked across the room; her aunt entered at the same time, as if by accident, and the two approached Mr. Howard. As he saw them coming he rose, with some effort as Helen noticed, and with a very slight look of pain; it cost her some resolution to give the man her hand. In a minute or two more, however, they were seated alone upon the sofa, Aunt Polly having gone off with the remark to Helen that she had made Mr. Howard promise to talk to her about music, and that they both knew too much about it for her. “You must tell Helen all about her playing,” she added to him, laughingly.
And then Helen, to carry on the conversation, added, “I should be very much pleased if you would.”
“I am afraid it is an ungracious task Mrs. Roberts has chosen me,” the man answered, smiling. “Critics are not a popular race.”
“It depends upon the critics,” said Helen. “They must be sincere.”
“That is just where they get into trouble,” was the response.
“It looks as if he were going to be chary with his praise,” thought Helen, feeling just the least bit uncomfortable. She thought for a moment, and then said, not without truth, “You pique my curiosity, Mr. Howard.”
“My criticism could not be technical,” said the other, smiling, again, “for I am not a pianist.”
“You play some other instrument?” asked Helen; afterwards she added, mischievously, “or are you just a critic?”