"It isn't just silly wanting to meet him," she said, as her color came.
"I do want to know him, to hear him play and talk, because there isn't
anybody else whose work I love as I do his. I used to feel that way about
yours, Cousin Ted, and want to know you on account of your books; but now
I forget all about them. It's different with Mr. Barrett. He doesn't seem
especially interesting. He looks conceited and he toes in; but his work
is wonderful. Besides, I want to have him hear me play. He looks as if he
wouldn't mind telling disagreeable truths, and I want somebody to tell me
whether I am wasting all my time, trying to do something that is
impossible. I don't care whether he eats crabs or clams; he may eat with
his knife, if he wants to. All I'm after is his music."
Theodora laughed at her outburst.
"I will do what I can for you, Cis; but I am afraid it is a forlorn
hope. I don't believe he is a man who can be coaxed into talking shop,
and I fear he hasn't the least idea of accepting any invitations, while
he is down here. I will try to get him; but you may be driven into
taking a piano down on the beach and discoursing sweet music to him,
while he bathes."
"Bathes!" Cicely's tone was a faint echo of Phebe's. "He doesn't bathe;
he paddles. No matter! Some day, I'll get what I want." But happily she
had no foreknowledge of the circumstances under which she would talk of
music with Gifford Barrett.
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