She knew so well, so woefully well,
how very wooden and mechanical the little music teacher's playing
always had been. But that Marie should realize it herself like this--the
tragedy of it made Billy's heart ache. At Marie's next words, however,
Billy caught her breath in surprise.
"But you see it wasn't music--it wasn't ever music that I wanted--to
do," she confessed.
"It wasn't music! But what--I don't understand," murmured Billy.
"No, I suppose not," sighed the other. "You play so beautifully
yourself."
"But I thought you loved music."
"I do. I love it dearly--in others. But I can't--I don't want to make it
myself."
"But what do you want to do?"
Marie laughed suddenly.
"Do you know, my dear, I have half a mind to tell you what I do like to
do--just to make you stare."
"Well?" Billy's eyes were wide with interest.
"I like best of anything to--darn stockings and make puddings."
"Marie!"
"Rank heresy, isn't it?" smiled Marie, tearfully. "But I do, truly. I
love to weave the threads evenly in and out, and see a big hole close.
As for the puddings I don't mean the common bread-and-butter kind, but
the ones that have whites of eggs and fruit, and pretty quivery jellies
all ruby and amber lights, you know."
"You dear little piece of domesticity," laughed Billy. "Then why in the
world don't you do these things?"
"I can't, in my own kitchen; I can't afford a kitchen to do them in.
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