Mrs. S. (irritably). We will drop that subject. But I must give you one piece of good advice. Do not make your daughter Emma exert herself too much, as you have done with your eldest daughter.
Dominie. If that is so, Mrs. Spriggins, it seems to have agreed with her very well.
Mrs. S. (vehemently). But she would have been better—
Dominie. If she had not played at all? That I can't tell exactly, as I said yesterday. Well, you are satisfied now with Emma's state of health?
Mrs. S. It is of no use to advise such people as you.
Dominie. I have always devoted myself to my business as a teacher, and have daily taken counsel with myself about the education of my daughters, and of other pupils whom I have formed for artists; and, it must be acknowledged, I have done so with some ability.
Mrs. S. (not attending to him, but turning to Emma). But does it not make your fingers ache to play such difficult music?
Dominie. Only when her teacher raps her on the knuckles, and that I never do.
(Emma looks at the parrot which is hanging in the parlor, and strokes the great bull-dog.)
John Spriggins (entering with his daughter Lizzie). Herr Dominie, will you be so good as to hear our daughter Lizzie play, and advise us whether to continue in the same course. Music is, in fact, hereditary in our family. My wife played a little, too, in her youth, and I once played on the violin; but my teacher told me I had no talent for it, no ear, and no idea of time, and that I scraped too much.