the shadow of a woman's head and neck crossed the sheet, which was presently drawn back at one corner.
"Is that any better?" asked a woman's voice, low but distinct.
The flageolet-player started and bent his eyes lower, across the graves and into the shadow beneath the window. For the first time he was aware of a figure standing there, a little way out from the wall. As well as he could see, it was a young boy.
"Much better, mother. You can't think how you've improved at it this week."
"Any mistakes?"
"The harlequin and columbine seemed a little jerky. But your hands were tired, I know."
"Never mind that: they mustn't be tired and it's got to be perfect. We'll try them again."
She was about to drop the corner of the sheet when the listener sprang out towards the window, leaping with bare feet over the graves and waving his flageolet wildly.
"Ah, no--no, madame!" he cried. "Wait one moment, the littlest, and I shall inspire you."
