"And so your grandmother is your music teacher?"

It was the lad's turn to laugh.

"Granny isn't my grandmother; Granny is my mother."

Toppling over in the dust of imagination went a gaunt granny image; in
its place a much more vital being appeared just behind the form of the
lad, guarding him even now while he spoke.

"And so your mother takes pupils?"

"Only me."

"Has any one heard you sing?"

"Only she."

It had become more and more the part of the man during this colloquy to
smile; he felt repeatedly in the flank of his mind a jab of the comic
spur. Now he laughed at the lad's deadly preparedness; business
competition in New York had taught him that he who hesitates a moment is
lost. The boy seemed ready with his answers before he heard the man's
questions.

"Do you mind telling me your name?"

"My name is Ashby. Ashby Truesdale. We come from an old English family.
What is your name, and what kind of family do you come from, Mister?"