`What she told you not,' Sylvie replied, with a shy glance at the young lady, and losing all sense of grammar in her confusion.

`Oo ca'n't pronounce it!' Bruno triumphantly cried. And he turned to the young lady, for sympathy in his victory. `I knewed she couldn't pronounce "umbrellasting"!'

The young lady thought it best to return to the arithmetical problem. `When I asked if you were seven, you know, I didn't mean "how many children?" I meant "how many years--" '

`Only got two ears,' said Bruno. `Nobody's got seven ears.'

`And you belong to this little girl?' the young lady continued, skilfully evading the anatomical problem.

`No I doosn't belong to her!' said Bruno. `Sylvie belongs to me!' And he clasped his arms round her as he added `She are my very mine!'

`And, do you know,' said the young lady, `I've a little sister at home, exactly like your sister? I'm sure they'd love each other.'

`They'd be very extremely useful to each other,' Bruno said, thoughtfully. `And they wouldn't want no looking-glasses to brush their hair wiz.'

`Why not, my child?'

`Why, each one would do for the other one's looking-glass a-course!' cried Bruno.

But here Lady Muriel, who had been standing by, listening to this bewildering dialogue, interrupted it to ask if the young lady would favour us with some music; and the children followed their new friend to the piano.

Arthur came and sat down by me. `If rumour speaks truly,' he whispered, `we are to have a real treat!' And then, amid a breathless silence, the performance began.

She was one of those players whom Society talks of as `brilliant', and she dashed into the loveliest of Haydn's Symphonies in a style that was clearly the outcome of years of patient study under the best masters. At first it seemed to be the perfection of piano-forte-playing; but in a few minutes I began to ask myself, wearily, `What is it that is wanting? Why does one get no pleasure from it?'

Then I set myself to listen intently to every note; and the mystery explained itself. There was an almost perfect mechanical correctness-- and there was nothing else! False notes, of course, did not occur: she knew the piece too well for that; but there was just enough irregularity of time to betray that the player had no real `ear' for music--just enough inarticulateness in the more elaborate passages to show that she did not think her audience worth taking real pains for--just enough mechanical monotony of accent to take all soul out of the heavenly modulations she was profaning--in short, it was simply irritating; and, when she had rattled off the finale and had struck the final chord as if, the instrument, being now done with, it didn't matter how many wires she broke, I could not even affect to join in the stereotyped `Oh, thank you!' which was chorused around me.

Lady Muriel joined us for a moment. `Isn't it beautiful?' she whispered to Arthur, with a mischievous smile.

`No, it isn't!' said Arthur. But the gentle sweetness of his face quite neutralized the apparent rudeness of the reply.

`Such execution, you know!' she persisted.