“Ah, Mr. Smith,” said she, suddenly turning to the Don and dropping the rôle she had assumed for one of the most artless simplicity,—“I am _so_ delighted to hear that you are a musician. Do you know, I had an idea that you knew little of music, and cared less; so that—do you know?—we girls actually feared that our playing bored you? Indeed we did!” she added, with emphasis, and looking up into his face with an ingenuous smile. “Didn’t we, girls? But it is such a nice surprise to find you were only pretending to be an ignoramus. Why, it was only yesterday morning that I was explaining to you the difference between the major and the minor keys!—and you knew all the time!” And she gave a delicious, childish little laugh. “It is such a comfort to know that you have been appreciating our music all this time. Oh, Mr. Smith!” exclaimed she, infantile glee dancing in her hazel eyes, “I have one piece that I have never played for you. I’ll play it immediately after breakfast. It is called—let me see—” And with eyes upturned and fingers wandering up and down the table, she seemed to search for the title of the composition. “Oh!” cried she, gushingly, and throwing herself forward in front of the Don, and turning her head so as to pour her joyous smile straight into his eyes,—“oh, it is called the Jenny Lind Polka;” and she beamed upon our artist as though awaiting an answering thrill. “_What!_ You never heard it? _No?_” (strumming on the table.) “Tump-ee! Jenny tump-ee! Lind polka? Tump-ee, tump-ee, tump-ee, teedle-ee—possible?” (with a look of intense surprise). “Tump-ee, teedle-ee, tump-ee, teedle-ee—No? W-h-y, g-i-r-l-s! Second part: Teedum, teedle-um, tee-dum, teedle-um—you don’t—teedum teedle-um—recognize it? Tee-dum, teedle-um tum, tum, tum—You are quite sure? Tump-ee, tump-ee—Quite? You shall have it immediately after breakfast—tump-ee, tump-ee.” And apparently unable to restrain her impatience, she recommenced the strain, and rattled it off with an ever-increasing brio, till, at last, as though transported with enthusiasm, she pushed back her chair and launched forth into a _pas seul_, tripping round the table, her dress spread out with thumb and forefinger of either hand, the graceful swaying of her lithe figure contrasting comically with the tin-pan tone she contrived to give her voice, and the ludicrous precision of her steps; but, changeful as the surface of a summer lake, she had hardly made the circuit of the table once, when she laid her dimpled cheek upon her rosy fingers, her rosy fingers interlaced upon the shoulder of an imaginary partner, and stilling her own voice, and as though drunk with the music of a mighty orchestra, she floated about the room, with closed eyes, in a kind of swoon.