Madame Aldavini gave a contemptuous sniff.
"I think she will make a very good dancer," Mr. Vergoe put in.
"You've seen her?"
"Many times," he said. "In fact, this visit is due to me—in a manner of speaking."
"Come, we'll see what she can do," said the mistress, and led the way out of the little room along a glass-covered arcade into the dancing-room.
The latter was probably a Georgian ballroom with fine proportions and Italian ceiling. A portion of it was curtained off for the pupils to change into practice dress, and all the way round the walls was a rail for toe-dancing. At the far end was a dais with a big arm-chair and a piano, over which hung a large oil painting of some bygone ballet at the Théâtre de l'Opéra in Paris, and also an engraving of Taglioni signed affectionately by that great Prima Ballerina Assoluta.
Madame Aldavini rang a bell, and presently Miss Carron, her pianist and assistant teacher, came in. Miss Carron was a Frenchwoman, who had lived so long in London that she spoke English better than French, except in moments of great anger, when her native tongue returned to her with an added force of expression from such long periods of quiescence.
"What tune do you like, miss?" inquired Madame. "What is her name? Jenny? Si, I have no Jenny at present."
But the would-be dancer had no tune by name.
"Play the what's it called from what's its name," suggested Mr. Vergoe, to help matters along.