He patted the girl’s shoulder caressingly, and made her sit down by the little red table in front of the tea-cups, and cakes, and buns. The buns reminded him of his daughter.
“Where is Mildred?”
“She is at her music-lesson; but she will be here in a minute or two, no doubt,” answered his wife.
“Poor little mite, to have to begin lessons so soon; the chubby little fingers stuck down upon the cold hard keys. The piano is so uninviting at seven years old; such a world of labour for such a small effect. If she could turn a barrel-organ, with a monkey on the top, I’m sure she would like music ever so much better; and after a year or two of grinding it would dawn upon her that there was something wanting in that kind of music, and then she would attack the piano of her own accord, and its difficulties would not seem so hopelessly uninteresting. Are you fond of lessons, Fay?”
“I hate them,” answered the girl, with vindictive emphasis.
“And I suppose you hate books too?” said Mrs. Fausset, rather scornfully.
“No, I love books.”
She looked about the spacious room, curiously, with admiring eyes. People who came from very pretty rooms of their own were lost in admiration at Mrs. Fausset’s morning-room, with its heterogeneous styles of art—here Louis Seize, there Japanese; Italian on one side, Indian on the other. What a dazzling effect, then, it must needs have upon this girl, who had spent the last five years of her life amidst the barren surroundings of a suburban school!
“What a pretty room!” she exclaimed at last.
“Don’t you think my wife was made to live in pretty rooms?” asked Fausset, touching Maud’s delicate hand as it moved among the tea-things.