“The girl who was beaten by a brutal father because she declined (with perfect propriety) to sing some of her songs?” inquired Campion.
“Yes, that girl. Well, her scruples allowed her to sing all over my house — and I cannot imagine how any songs could be worse! Then she was so violent, threw saucepans at the gentlest reproof, and her language was simply horrible. So she had to go, and now — would you believe it? — she comes to the door every other afternoon with a piano-organ. Ah, it’s an ungrateful, deceitful world, or so I have found it. Why, even that young piano-tuner who asked my opinion so modestly of some really charming little verses — he’s a bitter disappointment!”
“Why, what has he done?”
“Well, he hadn’t done the verses. Copied them, if you please, almost word for word, from
