FullReads

There were times when Thomas—as well as the two others—seemed to possess the power of divination. And during the whole of the dinner his manner showed distinct apprehension. The meal concluded, even to the use of the finger-bowl, and all dishes disposed upon the tray, he hung about, puttering with the table, picking up crumbs and pins, dusting this article and that with a napkin,—all the while working his lips with silent speech, and drawing down and lifting his black eye-brows menacingly.

Meanwhile, Gwendolyn fretted. But found some small diversion in standing before the pier glass, at which, between the shining rows of her teeth, she thrust out a tip of scarlet. She was thinking about the discussion anent tongues held by her mother and the two visitors.

“Seven,” she murmured, and viewed the greater part of her own tongue thoughtfully; “seven.”

The afternoon was a French-and-music afternoon. Directly after dinner might be expected the Gallic teacher—undesired at any hour. Thomas puttered and frowned until a light tap announced her arrival. Then quickly handed Gwendolyn over to her company.

Mademoiselle Du Bois was short and spare. And these defects she emphasized by means of a wide hat and a long feather boa. She led Gwendolyn to the school-room. There she settled down in a low chair, opened a black reticule, took out a thick, closely written letter, and fell to reading.

Gwendolyn amused herself by experimenting with the boa, which she festooned, now over one shoulder, now over the other. “Mademoiselle,” she began, “what kind of a bird owned these feathers?”

“Dear me, Mees Gwendolyn,” chided Mademoiselle, irritably (she spoke with much precision and only a slight accent), “how you talk!”

Talk—the word was a cue! Why not make certain inquiries of Mademoiselle?

“But do little birds ever talk?” returned Gwendolyn, undaunted. The boa was thin at one point. She tied a knot in it. “And which little bird is it that tells things to—to people?” Then, more to herself than to Mademoiselle, who was still deep in her letter, “I shouldn’t wonder if it wasn’t the little bird that’s in the cuckoo clock, though—”

“Ma foil!” exclaimed Mademoiselle. She seized an end of the boa and drew Gwendolyn to her knee. “You make ze head buzz. Come!” She reached for a book on the school-room table. “Attendez!“

“Mademoiselle,” persisted Gwendolyn, twining and untwining, “if I do my French fast will you tell me something? What does nouveaux riches mean?”

“Nouveaux riches,” said Mademoiselle, “is not on ziss page. Attendez-vous!“

Miss Brown followed Mademoiselle Du Bois, the one coming upon the heels of the other; so that a loud crescendo from the nursery, announcing the arrival of the music-teacher, drowned the last paragraph of French.

To Gwendolyn an interruption at any time was welcome. This day it was doubly so. She had learned nothing from Mademoiselle. But Miss Brown—She made toward the nursery, doing her newest dance step.

Miss Brown was stocky, with a firm tread and an eye of decision. As Gwendolyn appeared, she was seated at the piano, her face raised (as if she were seeking out some spot on the ceiling), and her solid frame swaying from side to side in the ecstasy of performance. Up and down the key-board of the instrument her plump hands galloped.

Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat. The air was vibrant with melody. The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch—all these inspired hope. The gray eyes were wide with eagerness. Each corner of the rosy mouth was upturned.

The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang. Miss Brown straightened—got to her feet—smiled down.

That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement. They were alone. She stood on tiptoe. “Miss Brown,” she began, “did you ever hear of a—a bee that some ladies carry in a—”

Miss Brown’s smile of greeting went. “Now, Gwendolyn,” she interrupted severely, “are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?”

Gwendolyn fell back a step. “But I didn’t ask you a silly question day before yesterday,” she plead. “I just wanted to know how anybody could call my German teacher Miss French.”

“Take your place, if you please,” bade Miss Brown curtly, “and don’t waste my time.” She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat.

Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express. “Do I have to play that old piece?” she asked.