“Whether I like to hear it or not, I must know what you mean,” she said, with charming imperiousness.
“Well, then, Miss Davison, you look—may I say it?—‘brainy.’”
She nodded, smiling.
“I’ve been told that before, but the look is deceptive. I’m only just not quite an idiot. I can’t do anything—except one thing that I don’t think I’ll own to,” she added, with a laugh.
“Let me put you through a short catechism. Can’t you play?—the piano, I mean.”
“Not even well enough to get through the accompaniment of a song at sight, or to play an easy piece that I haven’t diligently practiced till the family is tired to death of it.”
“Can’t you paint?”
“Oh, yes, I can copy drawing-master’s pictures, which are like nothing in heaven or earth or the water under the earth.”
“You can sing, I feel sure.”
“Yes, I can, but you have to sit very near the piano to hear me.”