“Oo ca’n’t pronounce it!” Bruno triumphantly cried. And he turned to the young lady, for sympathy in his victory. “I _knewed_ she couldn’t pronounce ‘umbrella-sting’!” The young lady thought it best to return to the arithmetical problem. “When I asked if you were _seven_, you know, I didn’t mean ‘how many _children_?’ I meant ‘how many _years_——’” “Only got _two_ ears,” said Bruno. “Nobody’s got _seven_ ears.” “And you belong to this little girl?” the young lady continued, skilfully evading the anatomical problem. “No, I doosn’t belong to _her_!” said Bruno. “Sylvie belongs to _me_!” And he clasped his arms round her as he added “She are my very mine!” “And, do you know,” said the young lady, “I’ve a little sister at home, exactly like _your_ sister? I’m sure they’d love each other.” “They’d be very extremely useful to each other,” Bruno said, thoughtfully. “And they wouldn’t want no looking-glasses to brush their hair wiz.” “Why not, my child?” “Why, each one would do for the other one’s looking-glass, a-course!” cried Bruno. But here Lady Muriel, who had been standing by, listening to this bewildering dialogue, interrupted it to ask if the young lady would favour us with some music; and the children followed their new friend to the piano. Arthur came and sat down by me. “If rumour speaks truly,” he whispered, “we are to have a real treat!” And then, amid a breathless silence, the performance began. She was one of those players whom Society talks of as ‘brilliant,’ and she dashed into the loveliest of Haydn’s Symphonies in a style that was clearly the outcome of years of patient study under the best masters. At first it seemed to be the perfection of piano-forte-playing; but in a few minutes I began to ask myself, wearily, “_What_ is it that is wanting? _Why_ does one get no pleasure from it?” Then I set myself to listen intently to every note; and the mystery explained itself. There _was_ an almost-perfect mechanical _correctness_—and there was nothing else! False notes, of course, did not occur: she knew the piece too well for _that_; but there was just enough irregularity of _time_ to betray that the player had no real ‘ear’ for music—just enough inarticulateness in the more elaborate passages to show that she did not think her audience worth taking real pains for—just enough mechanical monotony of accent to take all _soul_ out of the heavenly modulations she was profaning—in short, it was simply irritating; and, when she had rattled off the finale and had struck the final chord as if, the instrument being now done with, it didn’t matter how many wires she broke, I could not even _affect_ to join in the stereotyped “Oh, _thank_ you!” which was chorused around me. Lady Muriel joined us for a moment. “Isn’t it _beautiful_?” she whispered, to Arthur, with a mischievous smile. “No, it isn’t!” said Arthur. But the gentle sweetness of his face quite neutralised the apparent rudeness of the reply.