“But this is marvellous!” exclaimed the Count, following the child, and addressing himself to me, as if I were the proprietor of this musical prodigy, and so _must_ know the origin of her music. “You have heard her play this, sooner—I would say ‘before this occasion’? How call you the air?” I shook my head; but was saved from more questions by Lady Muriel, who came up to petition the Count for a song. The Count spread out his hands apologetically, and ducked his head. “But, Milady, I have already respected—I would say prospected—all your songs; and there shall be none fitted to my voice! They are not for basso voices!” “Wo’n’t you look at them again?” Lady Muriel implored. “Let’s help him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie. “Let’s get him—_you_ know!” Sylvie nodded. “Shall _we_ look for a song for you?” she said sweetly to the Count. “Mais _oui_!” the little man exclaimed. “Of course we may!” said Bruno, while, each taking a hand of the delighted Count, they led him to the music-stand. “There is still hope!” said Lady Muriel over her shoulder, as she followed them. I turned to ‘Mein Herr,’ hoping to resume our interrupted conversation. “You were remarking——” I began: but at this moment Sylvie came to call Bruno, who had returned to my side, looking unusually serious. “_Do_ come, Bruno!” she entreated. “You know we’ve nearly found it!” Then, in a whisper, “The locket’s in my _hand_, now. I couldn’t get it out while they were looking!” But Bruno drew back. “The man called me names,” he said with dignity. “What names?” I enquired with some curiosity. “I asked him,” said Bruno, “which sort of song he liked. And he said ‘_A_ song of _a_ man, not of _a_ lady.’ And I said ‘Shall Sylvie and me find you the song of Mister Tottles?’ And he said ‘Wait, eel!’ And I’m _not_ an eel, oo know!” “I’m _sure_ he didn’t mean it!” Sylvie said earnestly. “It’s something French—you know he ca’n’t talk English so well as——” Bruno relented visibly. “Course he knows no better, if he’s Flench! Flenchmen _never_ can speak English so goodly as _us_!” And Sylvie led him away, a willing captive. “Nice children!” said the old man, taking off his spectacles and rubbing them carefully. Then he put them on again, and watched with an approving smile, while the children tossed over the heap of music, and we just caught Sylvie’s reproving words, “We’re _not_ making hay, Bruno!” “This has been a long interruption to our conversation,” I said. “Pray let us go on!” “Willingly!” replied the gentle old man. “I was much interested in what you——” He paused a moment, and passed his hand uneasily across his brow. “One forgets,” he murmured. “What was I saying? Oh! Something you were to tell me. Yes. Which of your teachers do you value the most highly, those whose words are easily understood, or those who puzzle you at every turn?” I felt obliged to admit that we generally admired most the teachers we couldn’t quite understand.