“Is he a nice boy?” asked Martin. “Or do you like your great-uncle best?”
“I don’t like either at all, thank you. You are always being far too wise or far too young. As a man of a hundred, how can you play silly games with such enthusiasm? And as a boy of twelve, how can you play the piano as you do?”
“It is because I am so extremely gifted,” said Martin, so gravely and naturally that for an appreciable moment she stared.
“Ah! Don’t you find it an awful bore?” she asked.
“Dreadful. I can’t really take any pleasure in anything, owing to the sense of responsibility which my talents bring to me.”
Stella broke down and laughed. At gravity he always beat her completely. At which period in their conversation Lord Sunningdale did as he was ordered, and, taking him firmly by the arm, led him to the piano.
Karl was always most assiduous in his attendance at houses where Martin played, and he was here to-night. His object was certainly not to flatter or encourage his pupil, for often and often, when Martin had played in his presence the night before, he found but a growling reception waiting for him at his next lesson.
“You played well enough for them,” Karl would say; “I grant you that. Any bungling would do for them. But to play ‘well enough for them’ is damnation.”
“But it did,” Martin would argue. “I did not want to play at all; but one can’t say no. At least I can’t. I was not playing for you.”
“Then you should not have played at all. If you play often enough in a second-rate manner, you will soon become second-rate.”