“Yes, loathe them, laddie. Hoots! That is what is so maddening about you. Half the time I think I am talking to my great-uncle, and the rest of it to my little nephew up from the country.” “Is he a nice boy?” asked Martin. “Or do you like your great-uncle best?” “I don’t like either at all, thank you. You are always being far too wise or far too young. As a man of a hundred, how can you play silly games with such enthusiasm? And as a boy of twelve, how can you play the piano as you do?” “It is because I am so extremely gifted,” said Martin, so gravely and naturally that for an appreciable moment she stared. “Ah! Don’t you find it an awful bore?” she asked. “Dreadful. I can’t really take any pleasure in anything, owing to the sense of responsibility which my talents bring to me.” Stella broke down and laughed. At gravity he always beat her completely. At which period in their conversation Lord Sunningdale did as he was ordered, and, taking him firmly by the arm, led him to the piano. * * * * * Karl was always most assiduous in his attendance at houses where Martin played, and he was here to-night. His object was certainly not to flatter or encourage his pupil, for often and often, when Martin had played in his presence the night before, he found but a growling reception waiting for him at his next lesson. “You played well enough for them,” Karl would say; “I grant you that. Any bungling would do for them. But to play ‘well enough for them’ is damnation.” “But it _did_,” Martin would argue. “I did not want to play at all; but one can’t say no. At least I can’t. I was not playing for you.” “Then you should not have played at all. If you play often enough in a second-rate manner, you will soon become second-rate.” But to-night Martin never suggested the second-rate even to his exacting master. In a sort of boyish protestation at the strictures he had undergone last night concerning the last of the Noveletten, he played it again now. Certainly to-night there was no note of stodginess there; the varied, crisp, masterful moods of the music rang extraordinarily true. Half way through Karl turned to Lady Sunningdale, who was sitting next him. “How has he spent his day?” he asked, suddenly. “Skating, I think. He skated all morning, and was late for lunch, and he went back to Prince’s afterwards. He is terribly idle, is he not? Pray don’t interrupt, Monsieur Rusoff. I never can feel as if I hear a note at all unless I hear them all. Who said that? You, I think. So true. And have you heard his piece on me? He must play it. Delicious this is, isn’t it? I learned it when I was a child. Tum-tum. There is the tune again.” “But with whom did he skate, my dear lady?” asked Karl. There had been a good many notes missed by now. Lady Sunningdale gasped.