“My former observation,” said Tommy, “may be extended to say the same of certain Metropolitan artists.”
“You see?” Mrs. Loamford went on. “Mr. Borge understands.”
“But I have no accompanist,” objected Dorothy, by way of erecting an insuperable barrier to any exhibition.
“You really ought to learn to play your own,” said Mrs. Loamford. “Mr. Borge, would you believe that Dorothy took music lessons for eleven years, but that she doesn’t play a note today? I often say it’s a shame for a girl with so much talent to neglect her music that way. Think of it! She studied the piano for eleven years—and she can’t play for herself.”
“Sounds like a pupil of the late Professor Abendschein,” observed Tommy.
Mrs. Loamford beamed.
“Remarkable!” she exclaimed. “The very man! Tell me—is that the talk among musicians?”
“I can’t tell you. But I took lessons from the Professor myself for a little while. But I preferred Irving Berlin to Czerny and after a while we parted company.”
“Oh—you play!”
“Only a little. I pick out what I want to hear.”
Mrs. Loamford opened the piano very dramatically.
“You must accompany Dorothy, Mr. Borge,” she commanded.
“I don’t read much at sight,” Tommy murmured.
“Oh, don’t be modest! I’m sure you’re a wonderful pianist!”
“He doesn’t want to play, mother,” interpolated Dorothy.
Mentally, she was already clearing her throat.
“If you will sing,” said Tommy, “I’ll take a chance of ruining your performance.”
[29]
