“I've no doubt Madame Brandt could train him to dance to whatever tune she played,” said I.
She turned her dark golden eyes lazily, slumberously on me.
“Why do you say that, Mr. de Gex?”
This was disconcerting. Why had I said it? For no particular reason, save to keep up a commonplace conversation in which I took no absorbing interest. It was a direct challenge. Young Dale stopped playing with the Chow dog and grinned. It behooved me to say something. I said it with a bow and a wave of my hand:
“Because, though your father was a lion-tamer, your mother was a woman.”
She appeared to reflect for a moment; then addressing Dale:
“The answer doesn't amount to a ha'porth of cats'-meat, but you couldn't have got out of it like that.”
I was again disconcerted, but I remarked that he would learn in time when my mentorship was over and I handed him, a finished product, to society.
“How long will that be?” she asked.
“I don't know. Are you anxious for his immediate perfecting?”