'You know it? Yes.' Mademoiselle Ludérac continued to gaze, but her look was now definitely troubled. 'That was my winter home. But I did not love it as I did Buissac.'
'Have you always studied the harp?' Jill changed the subject, seeing that it had been inapt. 'Did you study in Angoulême?'
'No; I was too young then. My mother taught me when we came back to live here,' said Mademoiselle Ludérac.
Jill again turned aside; Mademoiselle Ludérac could not wish to dwell on that tragic figure. 'I've never heard the harp played as a solo instrument. I suppose you love playing?'
'Yes, indeed.'
'And giving lessons?'
'That depends on the pupil. What I enjoy most,' said Mademoiselle Ludérac with an air of relief, 'is playing with other instruments; with an orchestra. It is then that the harp can speak with its own voice; for there is little music written for it as a solo; only arrangements; such as I will play you to-night;—if you care to hear.'
'But it's what we've come for; to hear you.—You play at concerts, then? You must be frightfully good.'
'I am not so very good. But I have engagements sometimes, in the winter. It is my greatest joy—to play with the orchestra,' said Mademoiselle Ludérac, and she added, her relief in having left the theme of her past carrying her into a girlish spontaneity—
