The tutor, who had some ideas of his own on the subject of music, listened very patiently, sometimes pleased, sometimes distressed, and always conscious of the enthusiastic delight of his companion, whose unaffected comments formed to him the most amusing part of the entertainment.
“Isn’t that, stunning?”
“Thanks awfully, Mr Armstrong, for bringing me.”
“Hooray! Bones again!”
“I say, I’m looking forward to the break-down; ain’t you?” and so on.
Whatever Mr Armstrong’s anticipations may have been as to the rapture of the coming “break-down,” he contained himself admirably, and with his glass inquiringly stuck in his eye, listened attentively to all that went on, and occasionally speculated as to how Miss Rosalind Oliphant was enjoying her visit to Maxfield.
The programme was half over, and Tom was repairing the ravages of nature with a bun, when Mr Armstrong became suddenly aware of a person in the row but one in front looking round fixedly in his direction.
To judge by the close-cropped, erect hair and stubbly chin of this somewhat disreputable-looking individual, he was a foreigner; and when presently, catching the tutor’s eye, he began to indulge in pantomimic gestures of recognition, it was safe to guess he was a Frenchman.
“Who’s that chap nodding to you?” said Tom with his mouth full. “Is he tipsy?”
“He lays himself open to the suspicion,” said Mr Armstrong slowly. “At any rate, as I vote we go put and get some fresh air, he will have to find some one else to make faces at. Come along.”