iselle," persisted Gwendolyn, twining and untwining, "if I do my
French fast will you tell me something? What does _nouveaux riches_
mean?"

"_Nouveaux riches_," said Mademoiselle, "is not on ziss page.
_Attendez-vous!_"

Miss Brown followed Mademoiselle Du Bois, the one coming upon the heels
of the other; so that a loud _crescendo_ from the nursery, announcing
the arrival of the music-teacher, drowned the last paragraph of French.

To Gwendolyn an interruption at any time was welcome. This day it was
doubly so. She had learned nothing from Mademoiselle. But Miss
Brown--She made toward the nursery, doing her newest dance step.

Miss Brown was stocky, with a firm tread and an eye of decision. As
Gwendolyn appeared, she was seated at the piano, her face raised (as if
she were seeking out some spot on the ceiling), and her solid frame
swaying from side to side in the ecstasy of performance. Up and down the
key-board of the instrument her plump hands galloped.

Gwendolyn paused beside the piano-seat. The air was vibrant with melody.
The lifted face, the rocking, the ardent touch--all these inspired hope.
The gray eyes were wide with eagerness. Each corner of the rosy mouth
was upturned.

The resounding notes of a march ended with a bang. Miss Brown
straightened--got to her feet--smiled down.

That smile gave Gwendolyn renewed encouragement. They were alone. She
stood on tiptoe. "Miss Brown," she began, "did you ever hear of a--a bee
that some ladies carry in a--"

Miss Brown's smile of greeting went. "Now, Gwendolyn," she interrupted
severely, "are you going to begin your usual silly, silly questions?"

Gwendolyn fell back a step. "But I didn't ask you a silly question day
before yesterday," she plead. "I just wanted to know how _any_body could
call my German teacher Miss _French_."

"Take your place, if you please," bade Miss Brown curtly, "and don't
waste my time." She pointed a stubby finger at the piano-seat.

Gwendolyn climbed up, her cheeks scarlet with wounded dignity, her
breast heaving with a rancor she dared not express. "Do I have to play
that old piece?" she asked.

"You must,"--with rising inflection.

"Up at Johnnie Blake's it sounded nice. 'Cause my moth-er--"

"Ready!" Miss Brown set the metronome to _tick-tocking_. Then she
consulted a watch.

Gwendolyn raised one hand to her face, and gulped.

"Come! Come! Put your fingers on the keys."

"But my cheek itches."

"Get your position, I