“I am afraid that I shall never be a musician,” said Polly, with a stage sigh.
“What did you play for Mrs. Abington, Tom?” asked Betsy.
“I took some rolls of music with me,” replied Tom; “but I found that there was no need to have gone to such trouble. She wished to have it explained to her how—how—never mind, ’twas a theory of mine—we talked together about it—she and I—last night in the Long Room. Mr. Walpole came up—Mr. Selwyn—Mr. Williams—they had fresh-made epigrams—pleasantries taken from the French. They wearied her, but she was too polite to yawn in their faces.”
“No; she would not yawn in their faces,” said Dick. “And what was the subject of your theory, Tom? And how did it come that you had no need for the rolls of music you took with you to her lodgings?”
“‘Love and its Interpretation by Music’—that was the point upon which she expressed the liveliest interest,” said Tom.
“Oh, this is no place for me; I am too young,” cried Polly demurely, as she rose from her chair and went to the door.
“Polly has become insufferable,” said Tom in a tone of irritation. “Of course, any one who has studied music knows that it is a science.”
“It is assuredly a science. Language is a science, I have often heard my father assert; and since music can interpret the language of love into phrases that can be easily understood, it must be granted a place among the sciences,” said Dick. “But is’t possible that Mrs. Abington would not listen to your demonstration of this science on your violin?”
“Cielo! Why do you suggest that she would not listen?” cried Tom.
“Why, man, have you not just said that you had no need of the rolls of music which you carried with you?” said Dick.