"I think violets are far prettier than orchids," she said.
Von Barwig looked rather dubious. He was pleased, but he doubted.
"Do sit down!" she said, and he went toward the piano. "Not at the piano; here," said Hélène, seating him beside her. "Now, listen to me, sir! You must not bring me expensive flowers every time you call."
"They are not expensive," said Von Barwig with a smile. "It is the box and the ribbon that costs. You may have observed that I avoided them on this occasion."
"Well, what shall we talk about?" asked Hélène, after a pause.
"Talk about?" repeated Von Barwig, slightly perplexed. "Our music lesson!"
"Oh, I don't feel like taking a lesson to-day," said Hélène. "I want to talk."
"Yes, but I—it is I who must talk, if I am to teach," faltered Von Barwig in a low voice. He didn't want to go too far, for he had heard that American heiresses were capricious and whimsical and that they took likes and dislikes very suddenly. He did not want her to dislike him, so he would humour her; but he also wanted to teach her.
"You know," she said confidentially, "I think I have a rather discontented nature. Certain people have a horrible effect on me. I want to run about, play, sing, read, quarrel, do anything rather than talk to them. But you, how I like to talk to you! You have a sort of a—what shall I call it—an all-pervading calmness, that communicates itself to me, and soothes my ruffled feelings. I don't seem to feel in a hurry when you're here. And when you smile, as you're smiling now, I don't know why, but I feel just happy, and contented with myself. Do you understand what I mean?" The girl had a far-away expression in her eyes, as if she were day-dreaming. The old man regarded her with a smile.
"You are trying to put me at my ease," he said finally, "and you have succeeded, but we make no progress at our music."