I was now afraid that Teazer would challenge me to shoot again. Another fluke had added another leaf to the crown I felt sprouting about my brows: it would be a great blow to have the growth of that vegetation checked. But to my delight Theresa returned to her chair. I rather fancied that she felt somewhat ashamed of this amusement of hers. Perhaps because it was now associated with her conduct of the previous day; and she would naturally not care to deal with so direct a reference to her rudeness. This exploit of mine naturally persuaded them that I was a far more accomplished person than my modesty suffered me to represent; and of course Theresa was sure that I could play and sing as well as I could shoot and ride. “No, on my honour, I can’t sing a note.” My uncle looked incredulous. “But you can play?” said Theresa. “By ear only,” I replied. “But I’ll tell you what I can do, I can appreciate fine music and playing when I hear them, and as I am quite sure you are a good singer, you ought to oblige me by teaching me to forget your well-acted noises of yesterday.” “That’s only fair,” exclaimed my uncle. So saying, he led the way to the drawing-room. “What shall I sing?” asked Teazer, taking her place at the piano, and this time not knocking over the music stool. “Whatever comes into your head,” I answered. “Anything not maudlin,” said her father. She reflected a moment, and then struck up a very simple, but a very sweet melody, which she accompanied with a voice remarkably pure and rich. Indeed, I never listened to any amateur whose voice I liked so well, nor to any song which gave me more pleasure. “What a very pretty song,” said I when she had finished. “Old Kit Marlow’s words, ‘Come, live with me,’ set by some eighteenth century composer,” exclaimed my uncle. “What a dreadful struggle it must have cost you to sing so badly,” said I, looking at Theresa with a smile. She coloured up and asked me if I knew--I forget the name of the piece: one of Chopin’s, I think. I begged her to play it; but though she went through it in dashing style, I can’t say I was pleased. It was not music--there were no tunes in it. Here and there a little fragment of melody popped up and provoked the fingers into giving chase, but it invariably vanished among the growls of the bass, or finished with a scream amid the writhings and chatterings and shiverings of the treble. I was well aware that it was one of those pieces which the musical public pay half-a-guinea for sofa-stalls to hear, and so I seemed to applaud. That it was as little to my uncle’s taste as mine, I had no doubt; but then it was his daughter who played it, and he couldn’t be captious.