Lucy played a piece composed expressly for the piano by a pianist of the day. David sat on her left hand and watched intently how she did it.
When it was over, Talboys did a bit of rapture; Eve another.
“That is playing.”
“I would not have believed it if I had not seen it done,” said David. “Eve, you should have seen her beautiful fingers thread in and out among the keys; it was like white fire dancing; and as for her hand, it is not troubled with joints like ours, I should say.”
“The music, Mr. Dodd,” said Lucy, severely.
“Oh, the music! Well, I could hardly take on me to say. You see I heard it by the eye, and that was all in its favor; but I should say the music wasn't worth a button.”
“David!”
“How you run off with one's words, Eve! I mean, played by anybody but her. Why, what was it, when you come to think? Up and down the gamut, and then down and up. No more sense in it than a b c—a scramble to the main-masthead for nothing, and back to no good. I'd as lief see you play on the table, Miss Fountain.”
“Poor Moscheles!” said Lucy, dryly.
“Revenge is in your power,” said Talboys; “play no more; punish us all for this one heretic.”