“You can make anything of me,” said the poor young soldier, with his lips on the place her cheek had touched—“whatever you please.”
“A first-rate violin-player, then,” said Constance. “But I don’t think my power goes so high as that. Poor General, what does he say when you grind, as you call it, all the morning?”
“Oh, mother smooths him down—that is the use of a mother.”
“Is it?” said Constance, with an air of impartial inquiry. “I didn’t know. Come, Captain Gaunt, we are losing our time.”
And then tant bien que mal, the sonata was got through.
“I am glad Beethoven is dead,” said Constance, as she closed the piano. “He is safe from that at least: he can never hear us play. When you go home, Captain Gaunt, I advise you to take lodgings in some quite out-of-the-way place, about Russell Square, or Islington, or somewhere, and grind, as you call it, till you are had up as a nuisance; or else——”
“Or else—what, Miss Waring? Anything to please you.”
“Or else—give it up altogether,” Constance said.
His face grew very long; he was very fond of his violin. “If you think it is so hopeless as that—if you wish me to give it up altogether——”
“Oh, not I. It amuses me. I like to hear you break down. It would be quite a pity if you were to give up, you take my scolding so delightfully. Don’t give it up as long as you are here, Captain Gaunt. After that, it doesn’t matter what happens—to me.”