“Don’t discourage a pupil,” Grace intervened. “We can fit him in every day, if he wants to come. We charge an awful lot though, Mr. Pratt.”
“You ought to,” Jacob replied. “You teach so exceptionally well. May I pay for a few lessons in advance, please,” he asked, producing his pocketbook; “say a dozen?”
“It’s a guinea a time,” Grace told him. “Don’t be rash.”
Jacob laid the money upon the desk, and Sybil wrote out a formal receipt.
“I think you are very foolish,” she said, “and if you take my advice you will come once a week.”
“And if you take mine,” Grace declared, leaning over his shoulder and laughing, “you’ll come every day. We might go bankrupt, and then you’d lose your money.”
“I shall come as often as I am allowed,” Jacob assured her.
“Oh, you can come when you like,” Sybil remarked carelessly. “If I am not here, Grace can give you a lesson. You will find it a most informal place,” she went on, listening to footsteps on the stairs. “People drop in and have a dance whenever they feel like it. I am glad you are not an absolute beginner. It is sometimes embarrassing for them.”
The door opened and Hartwell entered, followed by Mason. Sybil introduced them. Both were exceedingly cordial.