“Goodness! Do you think that it would be possible to import the tactics of Italian opera into our peaceful village?” cried Priscilla. “Besides, how could any one prevent an encore being given? It is easy enough to force one on, but how are you, short of hissing, to keep down the applause?”
Rosa looked at her searchingly.
“I don’t know, but I believe that you do,” she said.
“Oh, Laura Mercy!” exclaimed Priscilla, and laughed.
Before Rosa could demand an explanation of the laugh, they came face to face with Mr. Mozart Tutt. He was smiling, but not quite easily; it was plain that he was not sure how his behaviour in regard to the accompaniment would be regarded by the young women; he had a great respect for their point of view, and so his smile was a little blurred. Its outlines were fluctuating.
He raised a playful forefinger to Priscilla.
“I am ashamed of you,” he said in a low voice.
“You need not be, Mr. Tutt. You know that I played the accompaniment quite well,” said she.
“You played it artfully, not artistically,” he replied. “The composer would be ready to tear his hair at the way you pandered at his expense to that fellow. Did you mean to teach me a lesson in manners?”
“I mean to teach him a lesson in manners, and music,” said Priscilla confidentially.