Phillis shook her head; she was clearly out of her depth.
"Have you any other accomplishments?"
"I am afraid not. I can play a little. Mr. Dyson liked my playing; but it is all from memory and from ear."
"Will you, if you do not mind, play something to me?"
Victoria Cassilis cared no more for music than the deaf adder which hath no understanding. By dint of much teaching, however, she had learned to execute creditably. The playing of Phillis, sweet, spontaneous, and full of feeling, had no power to touch her heart.
"Ye-yes," she said, "that is the sort of playing which some young men like: not those young men from Oxford who 'follow' Art, and pretend to understand good music. You may see them asleep at afternoon recitals. You must play at small parties only, Phillis. Can you sing?"
"I sing as I play," said Phillis, rising and shutting the piano. "That is only, I suppose, for small parties." The colour came into her cheeks, and her brown eyes brightened. She was accustomed to think that her playing gave pleasure. Then she reproached herself for ingratitude, and she asked pardon. "I am cross with myself for being so deficient. Pray forgive me, Mrs. Cassilis. It is very kind of you to take all this trouble."
"My dear, you are a hundred times better than I expected."
Phillis remembered what she had said ten minutes before, but was silent.
"A hundred times better. Can you dance, my dear?"