"Oh, it's disgusting," she thought; and a sickening sensation crept over her.
"Will you give us a tune?" said Mr. Rougeant.
"Do;" entreated Tom.
Adèle took the violin from the table upon which she had placed it, passed the bow over the strings to ascertain if it was properly tuned, then slowly began playing.
It was a simple piece, which did not demand exertion. She did not care what to play. "They cannot distinguish 'Home, Sweet Home' from 'Auld Lang Syne,'" she thought. Besides, they were not half listening; why should she give them good music.
She felt like the painter, who, having completed a real work of art, refuses to exhibit it to the public, on the ground that it is a profane thing to exhibit it to the gaze of unartistic eyes.
When she had finished playing, Tom looked at her. "That's capital music," he said, assuming the air of a connoisseur, then he added: "I s'pose you practice a good bit."
"The grin," thought Adèle, "it's awful; and his eyes resemble those of a wild cat. I wonder if he has a soul; if it shines through those eyes, it cannot be spotless;" then, recollecting herself, she said: "I have been practising now for ten years."
"No wonder you can rattle it," was the rejoinder.
Now Tom was not half so ugly as Adèle imagined him to be. Indeed, he looked well enough this evening, for he had come on purpose to exhibit himself, and was as a matter of fact as well dressed up as he could. His manners were not refined, but they were not absolutely rude.