to the beach. And at the sight of her the kid set up a matey yell, and she stopped at the foot of the steps.
“Hallo, baby,” she said.
“Good morning,” she said to me.
“May I come up?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She just hopped on to the veranda. She seemed to be that sort of girl. She started fussing over the child.
And six feet away, mind you, Freddie smiting the piano in the sitting room. It was a dashed disturbing situation, take it from Bertram. At any minute Freddie might take it into his head to come out on the veranda, and I hadn’t even begun to rehearse him in his part.
I tried to break up the scene.
“We were just going down to the beach,” I said.
“Yes?” said the girl. She listened for a moment. “So you’re having your piano tuned?” she said. “My aunt has been trying to find a tuner for ours. Do you mind if I go in and tell this man to come on to us when he has finished here?”
I mopped the brow.
“Er—I shouldn’t go in just now,” I said. “Not just now, while he’s working, if you don’t mind. These fellows can’t bear to be disturbed when they’re at work. It’s the artistic temperament. I’ll tell him later.”
“Very well. Ask him to call at Pine Bungalow. Vickers is the name … Oh, he seems to have stopped. I suppose he