And
I just couldn't do them--right along--in other people's kitchens."
"But why do you--play?"
"I was brought up to it. You know we had money once, lots of it," sighed
Marie, as if she were deploring a misfortune. "And mother was determined
to have me musical. Even then, as a little tot, I liked pudding-making,
and after my mud-pie days I was always begging mother to let me go down
into the kitchen, to cook. But she wouldn't allow it, ever. She engaged
the most expensive masters and set me practising, always practising.
I simply had to learn music; and I learned it like the adding machine.
Then afterward, when father died, and then mother, and the money flew
away, why, of course I had to do something, so naturally I turned to
the music. It was all I could do. But--well, you know how it is, dear. I
teach, and teach well, perhaps, so far as the mechanical part goes; but
as for the rest--I am always longing for a cozy corner with a basket of
stockings to mend, or a kitchen where there is a pudding waiting to be
made."
"You poor dear!" cried Billy. "I've a pair of stockings now that needs
attention, and I've been just longing for one of your 'quivery jellies
all ruby and amber lights' ever since you mentioned them. But--well, is
there anything I could do to help?"
"Nothing, thank you," sighed Marie, rising wearily to her feet, and
covering her eyes with her hand for a moment.
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