"Mildred plays Beethoven beautifully. My daughter loves music. She
plays the violin better than anybody you ever heard in your life."
"Well, she must play very well indeed, for I've heard Sarasate
and----"
"If Mildred would only practise," and she pressed her daughter to play
something for me.
"I haven't got my keys--they're upstairs. No, mother ... leave me
alone; I'm thinking of other things."
Her mother went back to the piano and continued the sonata. Mildred
looked at me, shrugged her shoulders, and then turned over the
illustrated papers, saying they were stupid. We began to talk about
foreign travel, and I learned that she and her mother spent only a
small part of every year in England. She liked the Continent much
better; English clothes were detestable; English pictures she did not
know anything about, but suspected they must be pretty bad, or else
why had I come to France to paint? She admitted, however, she had met
some nice Englishmen, but Yankees--oh! Yankees! There was one at
Biarritz. Do you know Biarritz? No, nor Italy. Italians are nice, are
they not? There was one at Cannes.
"Don't think I'm not interested in hearing about pictures, because I
am, but I must look at your ring, it's so like mine.
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