Roy struck an attitude as if playing, running his left hand up and down imaginary strings while he scraped with his right, and produced no bad imitation of the vibrating strings with his mouth.
“I should not dislike for you to play some instrument to accompany my clavichord, Roy,” said Lady Royland, smiling at the boy’s antics.
“Very well, then; I’ll learn the trumpet,” cried the lad. “I’m off now to learn—not music.”
“One moment, Roy, my dear,” said Lady Royland, earnestly. “Don’t let your high spirits get the better of your discretion.”
“Of course not, mother.”
“You do not understand me, my dear. I am speaking very seriously now. I mean, do not let Master Pawson think that you ridicule his love of music. It would be very weak and foolish, and lower you in his eyes.”
“Oh, I’ll mind, mother.”
“Recollect that he is a scholar and a gentleman, and in your father’s confidence.”
Roy nodded, and his lips parted as if to speak, but he closed them again.
“What were you going to say, Roy?”