"When does Madame Tomaso come again?" he inquired, suavely.
It was always on Tuesdays that Madame Tomaso came, and it was strange how Tuesdays raced around. That Tuesday, in particular, arrived almost in a moment while I was still thinking. But I had made my preparations.
"You are very careless about the casters, Norah," my mother said at breakfast. "There is actually no pepper on the table."
"But I filled them last night, ma'am!" Norah cried, staring.
It seemed to me that they all turned and looked at me. I slipped from the room in a hurry. Somehow I felt so queer that morning. I kept sighing, and when the door-bell rang I would get quite cold all over. It rang a great many times before Madame Tomaso came, fresh and alert from her walk, with an air of friendliness which was always sure to disappear later. She turned cross very early that day, even before she had taken off her things.
"I have been too lenient with you, little Miss," she told me, in an awful voice. "We will try a new method."
She seated herself by the piano, and folded her arms. I sat perched on my cushion, and stared at her in fascination. Oh, how I wished that I had let the pepper alone! Oh, how I wished that I was good! After all it was so pleasant to be good.
"Play," she said, in a masterful manner. "I will be an audience. I will be a great many mens and womens. We will listen to you."
I played. It was very terrible. Her eyebrows grew together. That was the way she would look when she found me out, only worse, much worse. I played faster. She watched my notes, and sometimes she would moan, feebly, as if something hurt her. I played on faster still, one trembling little hand racing ahead of the other, until musical flesh and blood could stand it no longer. She began to count with a shout.
"One, two, three, four!" she cried, and brought the fan down on the piano cover.