“It looks a little like Arthur's,” she thought.
This she had been noticing in the course of the conversation; then, because her curiosity had really been piqued, she brought back the original topic again. “You have not told me about my playing,” she smiled, “and I wish for your opinion. I am very vain, you know.” (There is wisdom in avowing a weakness which you wish others to think you do not possess.)
“It gave me great pleasure to watch you,” said the man, after a moment.
“To watch me!” thought Helen. “That is a palpable evasion. That is not criticising my music itself,” she said aloud, not showing that she was a trifle annoyed.
“You have evidently been very well taught,” said the other,—“unusually well; and you have a very considerable technic.” And Helen was only more uncomfortable than ever; evidently the man would have liked to add a “but” to that sentence, and the girl felt as if she had come near an icicle in the course of her evening's triumph. However, she was now still more curious to hear the rest of his opinion. Half convinced yet that it must be favorable in the end, she said:
“I should not in the least mind your speaking plainly; the admiration of people who do not understand music I really do not care for.” And then as Mr. Howard fixed his deep, clear eyes upon her, Helen involuntarily lowered hers a little.
“If you really want my opinion,” said the other, “you shall have it. But you must remember that it is yourself who leads me to the bad taste of being serious in company.”
That last remark was in Helen's own style, and she looked interested. For the rest, she felt that she had gotten into grave trouble by her question; but it was too late to retreat now.
“I will excuse you,” she said. “I wish to know.”
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Howard; “the truth is that I did not care for your selection.”