"Well, I'd _like_ to know everything," said the man gaily. "My
curiosity has been aroused to an almost unappeasable pitch. But of
course I'll take any information you feel like doling out. In the
first place, _how_, coming from such a ..." He checked himself and
changed the form of his question: "I overheard you speaking to
Victoria's maid, and I've been lying awake nights ever since,
wondering how it happened that you speak French with so pure an
accent."

"Oh, that's simple! Professor and Madame La Rue are old friends of the
family and I've spent a lot of time with them. And then, of course,
French is another mother-language for Father. He and Aunt Victoria
were brought up in Paris, you know."

Morrison sighed. "Isn't it strange how all the miracles evaporate into
mere chemical reactions when you once investigate! All the white-clad,
ghostly spirits turn out to be clothes on the line. I suppose there's
some equally natural explanation about your way on the piano--the
clear, limpid phrasing of that Bach the other day, and then the color
of the Bizet afterwards. It's astonishing to hear anybody of your
crude youth playing Bach at all--and then to hear it played right--and
afterwards to hear a modern given _his_ right note...."

Sylvia was perfectly aware that she was being flattered, and she was
immensely enjoying it. She became more animated, and the peculiar
sparkle of her face more spirited. "Oh, that's old Reinhardt, my music
teacher. He would take all the skin off my knuckles if I played a Bach
gigue the least bit like that Arlésienne Minuet. He doesn't approve of
Bizet very much, anyhow. He's a tremendous classicist."