"Because I am an Infant Prodigy. Grown people think that I am more of a genius if I dress like a silly. If I wore clothes like a decent boy they wouldn't come to hear me play. So I have to wear these things—" with a gesture of disgust. "I've worn them for ages and ages. I suppose that I'll die wearing them, and being an Infant Prodigy. And these curls! Do you think a real fellow likes to go around like a girl? Well, I guess not. Whenever old Heinrich, he's my tutor, says: 'We must have a new Fauntleroy suit for de boy, madam,' I just wish Fauntleroy had never been born."
"But he wasn't," spoke Bee. "He's just a character in a book, Percival."
"'Mounts to the same thing," answered Percival, "if I have to dress like him. But just you wait. When I'm a little older, you'll see. Your hair looks funny too," turning the subject suddenly. "What makes it so dark at the roots, and so yellow everywhere else? Did you bleach it?"
"Yes;" said Bee humbly, her face flushing. "You see I have a cousin who is very beautiful, and I wished to look like her, so I had my hair bleached. I am sorry that I did it now, and I am letting it grow out. Just as soon as it gets long enough to look well, I will have the yellow part cut off. Now do play, or your mother will be sorry that I came."
"Oh, she knows that I will play an hour longer," said the Prodigy easily, adjusting his violin. "I told her that I would, and I always do what I say I will."
Beatrice made no reply, and the lad began to play some snatches of march music which grew wilder and more barbarous, changing at last to a wild mad waltz of wonderful rhythm. He was indeed a prodigy. His tone was marvelously pure, his technique fluent and delicate. He touched the secret feelings of the heart, and brought into play all the emotions. The girl paled under the influence, and listened in rapturous silence. Presently the boy stopped, turned toward her expectantly, and drew himself up in a stiff, martial attitude. Beatrice gazed at him in wonderment, her breath coming quickly through her parted lips.
"Well?" he said impatiently. "Hurry up, and let's have it over with."
"Hurry up?" echoed Bee, rousing herself. "Hurry up what?"
"The kissing, of course. Get it over with quick! I want to go on playing. I'm in the mood."
"Go on playing then," cried Bee, a thread of indignation in her tone. "I'm not going to kiss you."