Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat. The air was vibrant with melody. The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch—all these inspired hope. The gray eyes were wide with eagerness. Each corner of the rosy mouth was upturned.
The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang. Miss Brown straightened—got to her feet—smiled down.
That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement. They were alone. She stood on tiptoe. "Miss Brown," she began, "did you ever hear of a—a bee that some ladies carry in a—"
Miss Brown's smile of greeting went. "Now, Gwendolyn," she interrupted severely, "are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?"
Gwendolyn fell back a step. "But I didn't ask you a silly question day before yesterday," she plead. "I just wanted to know how anybody could call my German teacher Miss French."
"Take your place, if you please," bade Miss Brown curtly, "and don't waste my time." She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat.
Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express. "Do I have to play that old piece?" she asked.
"You must,"—with rising inflection.
"Up at Johnnie Blake's it sounded nice. 'Cause my moth-er—"
"Ready!" Miss Brown set the metronome to tick-tocking. Then she consulted a watch.