“I don’t, if my mother can help it,” she confessed. “She says a correct taste in music is one of the signs of a gentlewoman, and she makes me study Beethoven and Brahms until I have cultivated a splendid taste for—Sullivan and Lecocq.”
“Does she like the sonatas herself?”
“She says so; but, then, all ladies with grown-up daughters say that. And she takes me to very dull concerts, of nothing but severely classical music. And she pretends she isn’t bored; but, oh! the relief which appears in her poor, dear face when they drop into a stray little bit of tune!”
Mr. Bradfield put his head back and roared with laughter.
“I suppose,” he said at last, wistfully, “she wouldn’t let you come down here sometimes in the evening and play something frivolous, something lively?”
Chris hesitated.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Of course, we would have her down here too,” he explained. “And when she felt that she couldn’t get on any longer without a dose of Bach, you might indulge her, you know.”
Chris, who looked pleased at the prospect, suddenly thought of a difficulty.