“Why, where’s the piano?” demanded Tommy.
Clodd turned in delighted triumph to the others.
“Humbug!” growled Peter.
“It isn’t humbug,” cried Clodd indignantly. “She thought it was a bookcase—anybody would. You’ll be able to sit there and practise by the hour,” explained Clodd to Tommy. “When you hear anybody coming up the stairs, you can leave off.”
“How can she hear anything when she—” A bright idea occurred to Peter. “Don’t you think, Clodd, as a practical man,” suggested Peter insinuatingly, adopting the Socratic method, “that if we got her one of those dummy pianos—you know what I mean; it’s just like an ordinary piano, only you don’t hear it?”
Clodd shook his head. “No good at all. Can’t tell the effect she is producing.”
“Quite so. Then, on the other hand, Clodd, don’t you think that hearing the effect they are producing may sometimes discourage the beginner?”
Clodd’s opinion was that such discouragement was a thing to be battled with.
Tommy, who had seated herself, commenced a scale in contrary motion.
“Well, I’m going across to the printer’s now,” explained Clodd, taking up his hat. “Got an appointment with young Grindley at three. You stick to it. A spare half-hour now and then that you never miss does wonders. You’ve got it in you.” With these encouraging remarks to Tommy, Clodd disappeared.