“Oh, Eileen! you are funny,” laughed Marcia again. “And all the girls think he’s lovely; why, I’m just dying to tell them what you’ve said, only it might get back to his ears.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter!” said Eileen, with her head high in the air. “I told him this morning what I thought of him.”
“You—told—him—this—morning—what—you—thought—of—him!” gasped Marcia.
“Yes,” answered Eileen, and then she detailed the conversation.
“And you left him before the lesson was over?” cried Marcia.
“Yes, I left him sitting there, gasping.”
“Oh, Eileen! you are brave; I’d never have done it. I’m real nervous at my lesson.”
“Pshaw! I’m never nervous, and I’m never going to be, either. I mean to be an actress some day, you know, and it won’t do for me to be nervous. Thank goodness, actresses don’t have to know music, and if I have a dozen children I’ll never let one of them learn a note unless they want to. Playing by ear’s good enough for me, and it’ll be good enough for my children.”
Then Marcia went off into another peal of laughter. “Oh, Eileen, I wish you’d stay here for ever!” she cried. “I’ll miss you dreadfully when you’re gone. But I do wish you’d try hard at your music.”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll have to! But I’m more satisfied now that I’ve said all that about ‘soul’ and ‘ear.’”