The Dowager-Baroness was far too well-bred to mortify her young rival intentionally; she was far too well-bred not to do so daily without intention. The Dominé’s daughter must now take precedence? Impossible. Mevrouw van Helmont retained her seat at the head of her table. The servants came to Mevrouw for orders; not that Ursula cared at all about this, or wished in any way to domineer, but her clear nature shrank from the discomfort of hourly confusion. “Oh, what does it matter!” thought Otto, harassed by the real troubles of his own administration. His wife did not complain to him. She retired to the big drawing-room, with empty hands, and found solace for hours at her beloved piano. It was a superb Steinway grand of the old Baron’s buying, very different from the little cottage instrument at the Parsonage. For years it had been the object of Ursula’s secret envy, and now it was the one acquisition she heartily rejoiced in among all the grandeurs of the great house which were not even hers.
“Does Ursula always play the piano?” asked the Dowager, wearily, when her son came in to visit her. “Did she never do _anything_ else in her old home?”
“She is such a first-rate musician, mamma,” apologized Otto. “That requires a great deal of constant practice.”
“I suppose so. In my day nobody was a first-rate musician, except the professionals.”
“So much has changed,” said Otto, patiently.
“Perhaps.” The Dowager was making a spring-coat for Plush, what the French call a _demi-saison_; she laid down the sky-blue scrap upon her heavy crape. “Still, Otto, I wish things could be arranged a little differently. Does it not strike you as rather incongruous, with an eye to the servants and the tradespeople, that this house of mourning should resound with dance-music from daybreak to dark?”
Otto went to his wife. “I like the playing very much indeed,” he said. “But a little solemn music would make a delightful change. Do you always prefer dances, Ursula?”
“This is a scherzo, Otto, out of one of Beethoven’s symphonies.”
“Is it? I wish it sounded a little less--gay.”
Ursula struck the piano a violent crash, and then ostentatiously dragged, banging through the same composer’s “Marche Funèbre.” Towards the end she looked up defiantly at her husband standing in the embrasure of a window with folded arms. Suddenly she broke away from the music, and threw herself on his breast.