notices announcing that the Professor had given his last lessons, Dorothy, like the rest of the Abendschein students, felt an intangible but distinct grief in the passing of this mild martinet of the keyboard. The Professor had taught his disciples something more than music; he had taught them to rely on him. Without him they hardly knew which way to turn.
A week after the Profesor had been buried, Mrs. Loamford considered the question of Dorothy’s musical future.
“Dorothy must continue her lessons,” she informed her husband. “You know how it is. Poor dear Professor used to tell us what Rubinstein said to him: ‘If I do not practise for a day I know it; if I do not practise for a week, the critics know it; if I do not practise for a month, everybody knows it.’”
Loamford looked at her quizzically. To the outsider this mysterious gaze connoted some cryptic knowledge; actually, it was the defensive gesture of a man who had long since learned that his only gesture was one of defence. He had found out who was boss around there without starting anything. Mrs. Loamford invariably started everything in the Loamford ménage.
“Dorothy is sixteen,” continued Mrs. Loamford. “We naust consider her career.”
Her husband nodded abstractedly.
“Poor dear Professor always considered her one of his most talented pupils,” she went on. “He said she had a real gift for music. He said she had a great ear.”
Loamford nodded again, a trifle more abstractedly. His wife spoke sharply.
“Aren’t you listening?” she demanded. I said Dorothy had a great ear.”
“'Ear, ’ear,” commented Loamford.
[6]
