“Oh, she is the shy one of the family, I believe,” said Mrs. Thrale. “I am sure that all the time you were so good-natured as to talk to her she was wishing that the floor would open and allow her to sink out of sight. She would have thought it much more good-natured on your part if you had taken no notice of her. I have scarcely spoken to her half a dozen times myself, though I have frequently been to her father's house. I cannot rack my brain to discover a congenial topic with such young people. Were you successful, do you think?”
He made a gesture with his hands that might mean anything. Mrs. Thrale assumed that it meant nothing—that he felt he was not greatly concerned whether he had been successful in finding a congenial topic of converse with Miss Burney or not.
She laughed.
“Poor girl!” she said. “She may have her dreams like other girls.”
“I believe she has—poor girl!” said he. “But I know that in her knowledge of music she goes deeper—soars higher than most young ladies who have submitted to lessons from a maestro—nay, higher than the maestro himself.”
Mrs. Thrale looked doubtfully at him.
“Is it possible that we are talking of two different people?” said she.
“Ah, that is quite possible,” said he.
“I was referring to Miss Burney, the one of the family who does nothing except sew—her mother commends her sewing very highly. I fear that you actually believed that you were in converse with one of her sisters.”
“Madame,” said he, “it is my belief that the one who sews in a family is far more interesting than the one who sings. But Miss Burney need not, in my eyes, be any more than Miss Burney to be interesting, though she has taught me more of music than I ever learned before.”