“Take off that mute, do!” cried Louisa, snatching her fingers from the pianokeys, and turning abruptly to the violinist.
Helena looked slowly from her music.
“My dear Louisa,” she replied, “it would be simply unendurable.” She stoodtapping her white skirt with her bow in a kind of a pathetic forbearance.
“But I can’t understand it,” cried Louisa, bouncing on her chair with theexaggeration of one who is indignant with a beloved. “It is only lately youwould even submit to muting your violin. At one time you would have refusedflatly, and no doubt about it.”
“I have only lately submitted to many things,” replied Helena, who seemed wearyand stupefied, but still sententious. Louisa drooped from her bristlingdefiance.
“At any rate,” she said, scolding in tones too naked with love, I don’t likeit.”
“Go on from Allegro,” said Helena, pointing with her bow to the place onLouisa’s score of the Mozart sonata. Louisa obediently took the chords, and th