It was a strange apartment for a little boy, for it had been assigned to
him once when he was ill, as being sunny, and beyond his brass bedstead
and small boy hoards, contained nothing whatever that looked as if it
belonged to one of few years.
For it was hung in faded plum-coloured satin, the eighteenth-century
furniture was quaint and beautiful, and the narrow oval mirrors, set in
tarnished gilded frames like a frieze about its walls, presented to
Brigit's eye as she opened the door an infinite and bewildering number
of Tommies, bending studiously over a large sheet of writing-paper, that
he held on a book on his knees.
"Hello, Tommy, what are you up to?"
The boy looked up, his face full of ecstasy. "I say, Bick, he _will_!
He will help me learn to be a violinist! He's going to find a good
teacher for me, and then, when I have got over the first grind, you
know, he's going--oh, Bicky, darling--he's going to teach me himself, at
the same time. Isn't he an angel!"
She sat down. "Yes, Tommy. But what on earth are you writing?"
"Well, you see, he--he says I must be educated. I had to promise him to
go in for Latin and all that rot. It's--a bore, but he says a musician
must be educated----"
She started.
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