"That's it, abuse a thing you don't understand! It's a very good violin, only the strings are a bit worn. Of course, if I decide to have it, I shall get new ones."
"Worn—I should think they are! Look here, Bob, you don't mean to tell me that you're really going to buy that old thing?"
"I told you before, that is none of your business. If I choose to buy it, I shall, so don't give advice when it isn't wanted."
"But it is my business!" cries Betty, now thoroughly roused. "Who is to pay for it, I should like to know? Haven't I to work for the money to live on?—am I not trying to work for it now? And instead of helping me, as you ought, you make my head whirl round with that horrid old fiddle!"
Bob jumps up in a fury, and flings the violin into its case. "So this is the way a fellow is treated when he comes home to practise! It'll be long enough before I trouble you again, my lady, I can tell you! I've plenty of friends who understand music rather better than you do, and they tell me that I ought to learn, and would soon play very well. You used to say you wanted me to learn yourself. Now I see just how much your words are worth!"
And he closes the case with a loud snap, and flings out of the room.
In a moment Betty realises what she has done. She flies after him.
"Bob—Bob—stay one minute—I——"
The street door closes with a bang. Bob has gone.
Betty stands there, her head in a whirl. How did the miserable quarrel arise? Just after she had been feeling so happy about her success with the girls, too. Oh, what a wretched, wretched ending to the day!