"It seems to me," said she, "that this piano is giving you a great deal of trouble."
"A great deal," I rejoined, "the strings keep breaking." And I snapped a second one.
"That is very extraordinary," she exclaimed.
"Yes, it is indeed extraordinary," I replied.
The cousin entered at that moment, and I snapped a third string by way of salute. It was one of the lower bass strings, and it made a terrible report. The cousin, who was not expecting it, stepped back, and the signora laughed aloud. That laugh had a strange sound to me. It was not in harmony with her face or her manner; it was harsh and spasmodic, and disconcerted the cousin so that I almost pitied him.
"I am very much afraid," she said, when that nervous paroxysm came to an end and she was able to speak, "I am very much afraid that we cannot have any music to-night. This poor old cembalo is bewitched, all the strings are breaking. It is really supernatural, I assure you, Hector; if you so much as look at them they twist and snap with a horrible noise."
With that she began to laugh again, peal upon peal, without the slightest trace of merriment on her face. The cousin laughed because she did, but was abruptly checked by these words from her:
"For heaven's sake, cousin, don't laugh; you haven't the slightest inclination to."
The cousin seemed to me to be well used to being laughed at and teased. But he was hurt, no doubt, to be treated so in my presence; for he said in an irritated tone:
"Why shouldn't I be inclined to laugh as well as you, cousin?"