“One likes to do a little of everything, Harcourt,” said Upton, not at all displeased at this flattery; “and somehow it never suits a fellow, who really feels that he has fair abilities, to do anything badly; so that it comes to this: one does it well, or not at all. Now, you never heard me touch the piano?”
“Never.”
“Just because I'm only an inferior performer, and so I only play when perfectly alone.”
“Egad, if I could only master a waltz, or one of the melodies, I'd be at it whenever any one would listen to me.”
“You're a good soul, and full of amiability, Harcourt,” said Upton; but the words sounded very much as though he said, “You're a dear, good, sensible creature, without an atom of self-respect or esteem.”
Indeed, so conscious was Harcourt that the expression meant no compliment that he actually reddened and looked away. At last he took courage to renew the conversation, and said,—
“And what would you advise for the boy, then?”
“I 'd scarcely lay down a system; but I 'll tell you what I would not do. I 'd not bore him with mathematics; I 'd not put his mind on the stretch in any direction; I 'd not stifle the development of any taste that may be struggling within him, but rather encourage and foster it, since it is precisely by such an indication you 'll get some clew to his nature. Do you understand me?”
“I 'm not quite sure I do; but I believe you'd leave him to something like utter idleness.”
“What to you, my dear Harcourt, would be utter idleness, I've no doubt; but not to him, perhaps.”