"I mean private lessons. 'Poulter's' always calls 'em 'privates.'"
"I heard you were in want of an accompanist. I came to offer my services."
"It won't be for long; my fingers is nearly healed of the chilblains."
"Anything is better than nothing," remarked Mavis.
"Would you mind if I heard you play?"
"Not at all."
"My word might go some way with Mr Poulter. See?" said the little woman confidentially.
"It's very good of you," remarked Mavis, who was beginning to like the little, shrivelled-up old thing.
The woman with the chilblains led the way to a door in a corner of the cloak-room, which Mavis had not noticed before. Mavis followed her down an inclined, boarded-in gangway, decorated with coloured presentation plates from long forgotten Christmas numbers of popular weeklies, to the ballroom, which was a portable iron building erected in the back garden of the academy. At the further end was a platform, which supported a forlorn-looking piano.
"Be careful not to slip," said Mavis's conductor.