One evening when Charles was listening to her, she began the same piece four times over, each time with much vexation, while he, not noticing any difference, cried⁠—

“Bravo! very good! You are wrong to stop. Go on!”

“Oh, no; it is execrable! My fingers are quite rusty.”

The next day he begged her to play him something again.

“Very well; to please you!”

And Charles confessed she had gone off a little. She played wrong notes and blundered; then, stopping short⁠—

“Ah! it is no use. I ought to take some lessons; but⁠—” She bit her lips and added, “Twenty francs a lesson, that’s too dear!”

“Yes, so it is⁠—rather,” said Charles, giggling stupidly. “But it seems to me that one might be able to do it for less; for there are artists of no reputation, and who are often better than the celebrities.”