But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on the river
bluffs was grey and mournful-looking. I was tired of school, tired of
winter clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and the piles of
cinders that had lain in the yards so long. There was only one break in
the dreary monotony of that month: when Blind d'Arnault, the Negro
pianist, came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on Monday
night, and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our comfortable
hotel. Mrs. Harling had known d'Arnault for years. She told Antonia she
had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there would certainly
be music at the Boys' Home.
Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the hotel and slipped quietly
into the parlour. The chairs and sofas were already occupied, and the air
smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The parlour had once been two rooms,
and the floor was swaybacked where the partition had been cut away. The
wind from without made waves in the long carpet. A coal stove glowed at
either end of the room, and the grand piano in the middle stood open.
There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the house that night, for
Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha for a week. Johnnie had been having drinks
with the guests until he was rather absent-minded.
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