"Well, she must play very well indeed, for I've heard Sarasate and----"
"If Mildred would only practise," and she pressed her daughter to play something for me.
"I haven't got my keys--they're upstairs. No, mother ... leave me alone; I'm thinking of other things."
Her mother went back to the piano and continued the sonata. Mildred looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and then turned over the illustrated papers, saying they were stupid. We began to talk about foreign travel, and I learned that she and her mother spent only a small part of every year in England. She liked the Continent much better; English clothes were detestable; English pictures she did not know anything about, but suspected they must be pretty bad, or else why had I come to France to paint? She admitted, however, she had met some nice Englishmen, but Yankees--oh! Yankees! There was one at Biarritz. Do you know Biarritz? No, nor Italy. Italians are nice, are they not? There was one at Cannes.
"Don't think I'm not interested in hearing about pictures, because I am, but I must look at your ring, it's so like mine. This one was given to me by an Irishman, who said the curse of Moreen Dhu would be upon me if I gave it away."
"But who is Moreen Dhu? I never heard of her."
"You mustn't ask me; I'm not a bit an intelligent woman. People always get sick of me if they see me two days running."
"I doubt very much if that is true. If it were you wouldn't say it."
"Why not? I shouldn't have thought of saying it if it weren't true."
Next evening at dinner I noticed that she was dressed more carefully than usual; she wore a cream-coloured gown with a cerise waistband and a cerise bow at the side of her neck. I noticed, too, that she talked less; she seemed preoccupied. And after dinner she seemed anxious; I could not help thinking that she wished her mamma away, and was searching for an excuse to send her to bed.