“Can’t,” explained William Clodd. “He’s dead.”
“I can quite believe it,” commented Peter Hope.
“It was a shop where people came and practised, paying sixpence an hour, and he had got to like it—said it made a cheerful background to his thoughts. Wonderful what you can get accustomed to.”
“What’s the good of it?” demanded Peter Hope.
“What’s the good of it!” retorted William Clodd indignantly. “Every girl ought to know how to play the piano. A nice thing if when her lover asks her to play something to him—”
“I wonder you don’t start a matrimonial agency,” sneered Peter Hope. “Love and marriage—you think of nothing else.”
“When you are bringing up a young girl—” argued Clodd.
“But you’re not,” interrupted Peter; “that’s just what I’m trying to get out of your head. It is I who am bringing her up. And between ourselves, I wish you wouldn’t interfere so much.”
“You are not fit to bring up a girl.”
“I’ve brought her up for seven years without your help. She’s my adopted daughter, not yours. I do wish people would learn to mind their own business.”