“A note,” said Jean severely, “has a middle, a beginning, and an end. It is not a ghost, that you can run over it without disaster. Strike the middle of the note with your full voice, I entreat; you are fumbling and creeping up to it, and then when I expect it to come out—voilà!—you have swallowed it completely, there is nothing left to come. Try these arpeggios now. Attendez!”
Margot shut her eyes and drew frowning brows together to show how hard she was trying. Jean looked very cross this morning. He had not slept well and his conscience had worn his nerves to threads; having done the best he could, he felt terribly guilty and disheartened.
“That is better,” said Jean; “but it is not good; one would say your voice was wool-gathering this morning! Now try these chords.”
Margot tried them mechanically. La Mère Pelous at the corner bought fresh eggs from the country twice a week, but then they were very dear; on the other hand, two streets away Madame Claire had a large assortment which she said came direct from her nephew’s farm, only——
Bang! came Jean’s hands down on the keys, a terrible discord!
“You are not singing at all!” he said in a fury. “You are piping! What are you thinking of, then? Are you in love?”
This was really very rude of Jean.
“Monsieur!” said Margot, at once upon her dignity. Jean felt extremely ashamed of himself, far too much ashamed to apologize.
“You must excuse me,” he said sarcastically. “You see, I have supposed you wished to work.”
“I do,” said Margot, with a tremor in her voice. Jean heard the suspicious little break and hurriedly caught up one of the songs. He had not meant to be a brute! Well, not so much of a one as to make her cry, at any rate.