“At none, thank fortune!  Regard me as a genuine rara avis, a fashionable young lady with no more aptitude for the ’concord of sweet sounds,’ than for the abstractions of Hegel, or Differential Calculus.  It is traditional, that while in my nurse’s arms, I performed miracles of melody such as Auld Lang Syne, with one little finger; but such undue precocity, madly stimulated by ambitious mamma and nurse Nell, resulted fatally in the total destruction of my marvellous talent, which died of cerebro-musical excitement when confronted with the gamut.  Except as the language in which Strauss appeals to my waltzing genius, I have no more use for it than for ancient Aztec.  Thank Heaven! this is a progressive age, and girls are no longer tormented as formerly by piano fiends, who once persisted in pounding and squeezing music into their poor struggling nauseated souls, as relentlessly as girls’ feet are still squeezed in China.  My talent is not for the musical tones of Pythagoras.”

“I should be truly glad to learn in what direction it tends.” said her mother, rather severely.

Up rose the head with its tawny crown, and there was evident emphasis in the ringing voice and in the fiery glance that darted from her laughing hazel eyes.

“Cruel mamma!  Because Euterpe did not preside when I was lucklessly ushered into this dancing gilt bubble that we call the world, were all good gifts denied me?  The fairies ordained that I should paint, should soar like Apelles, Angelo, and Da Vinci into the empyrean of pure classic art, but no sooner did I dabble in pigment, and plume my slender artistic pin-feathers, than the granite hands of Palma pride seized the ambitious ephemeron, cut off the sprouting wings, and bade me paint only my lips and cheeks, if dabble in paint I must.  I am confident the soul of Zeuxis sleeps in mine, but before the ukase of the Palmas a stouter than Zeuxis would quail, lie low,—­be silent.  Hence I am a young miss who has no talent, except for appreciating Balzac, caramels, Diavolini, vanille souffle, lobster-croquettes, and Strauss’ waltzes; though envious people do say that I have a decided genius for ‘malapropos historic quotations,’ which you know are regarded as unpardonable offences by those who cannot comprehend them.  Come here, St. John, and let me rub your fur the wrong way.  The world will do it roughly if you survive tender kittenhood, and it is merciful to initiate you early, and by degrees.”

She took up a young black cat that was curled comfortably on the skirt of her dress, and stroking him softly, resumed her book.

Mrs. Palma compressed her lips, knitted her heavy brows, and turned the silk sash to the light to observe the effect of the silver snowdrops she was embroidering.

During her residence under the same roof, Regina had become accustomed to these verbal tournaments between mother and daughter, and having been kept in ignorance of the ground of Olga’s grievance, she could not understand allusions that were frequently made in her presence, and which never failed to irritate Mrs. Palma.