“I want to go and talk to Mrs. van Even,” Cecile heard him say.
She saw him come towards the big drawing-room, where she was still sitting with Amélie—Jules still at her feet—engaged in desultory talk, for Amélie could never maintain a conversation, always wandering and losing the threads. She did not know why, but Cecile suddenly assumed a most serious expression, as though she were discussing very important matters with her sister; and yet all that she said was:
“Jules ought really to take lessons in harmony, when he composes so nicely....”
Quaerts had approached; he sat down beside them, with a scarcely perceptible shyness in his manner, a gentle hesitation in the brusque force of his movements.
But Jules fired up:
“No, Auntie, I want to be taught as little as possible! I don’t want to be learning names and principles and classifications. I couldn’t do it. I only compose like this, like this....” And he suited his phrase with a vague movement of his fingers.
“Jules can hardly read, it’s a shame!” said Amélie.
“And he plays so nicely,” said Cecile.
“Yes, Auntie, I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. Oh, it’s not really clever: it just comes out of myself, you know!”
“But that’s so splendid!”