"Mamma, dear, won't you play us the 'Impassionata'?"
"But, Milly dear, you know quite well that I can't play it."
Mamma was nevertheless persuaded to play not only the "Impassionata" but her entire repertoire. She was not allowed to leave the piano, and had begun to play Sydney Smith when the door opened, and a man's face appeared for a second. Remembering her interest in men, I said:
"Did you see that man? What a nice, fresh-looking young man!"
She put her finger on her lip, and wrote on a piece of paper:
"Not a word. He's my fiancé, and mother doesn't know he's here. She does not approve; he hasn't a bean." ... "Thank you, mother, thank you; you played that sonata very nicely."
"Won't you play, my dear?"
"No, mother dear, I'm feeling rather tired; we've had a long day."
And the two bade me good-night, leaving me alone in the sitting-room to finish a letter. But I had not quite got down to the signature when she came in looking very agitated, even a little frightened.
"Isn't it awful?" she said. "I was in the dining-room with my fiancé, and the waiter caught us kissing. I had to beg of him not to tell mamma. He said 'Foi de gentilhomme,' so I suppose it's all right."