“And it was all Annie’s fault, too,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “By the way, did I ever tell you how it happened that Mr. Bonds gave up calling me a delightful conversationalist? No? Well, you see, he lived almost opposite to us, and he practiced on the ’cello until papa, who is very fond of De Quincey, said he no longer dared to read “Murder considered as one of the Fine Arts.” Suddenly he stopped practicing, and—”
“Mercy on us, had anything happened to him?” gasped the president, turning pale.
“Nothing ever happens to people who deserve it. As it happened, however, we were no better off, for some one, a new resident of the street, we supposed, began to practice on the violin seven hours a day!”
“It may not have been a newcomer,” observed the girl with the eyeglasses. “It is a fact that one vigorous soprano is enough to demoralize a whole neighborhood, and I suppose—”
“The ’cello is quite as bad? Possibly so, at any rate rents went down in the neighborhood and placards went up. One day I happened to meet Mr. Bonds, and as long as my father was not within hearing distance, I said: ‘Oh, I’m sorry that you have given up your delightful ’cello.’ If you could have seen the rapture on his face.”
“I’d rather have seen his face than that of your guardian angel,” remarked the girl with the classic profile; “but go on; don’t stop.”
“I wish I had stopped then, but I didn’t. I said, ‘By the way, who is it that scrapes the violin all day long? I never heard anything so awful in my life!’ Oh, girls, I—”
“But I don’t see anything wrong in that,” said the president.
“He did. You see, he had given up the ’cello and taken to the violin with the idea of astonishing the world with his genius!”
“And you live to tell it,” said the girl with the Roman nose.