"What makes you wear them then?" asked she, surprised.

"Because I am an Infant Prodigy. Grown people think that I am more of a genius if I dress like a silly. If I wore clothes like a decent boy they wouldn't come to hear me play. So I have to wear these things--" with a gesture of disgust. "I've worn them for ages and ages. I suppose that I'll die wearing them, and being an Infant Prodigy. And these curls! Do you think a real fellow likes to go around like a girl? Well, I guess not. Whenever old Heinrich, he's my tutor, says: 'We must have a new Fauntleroy suit for de boy, madam,' I just wish Fauntleroy had never been born."

"But he wasn't," spoke Bee. "He's just a character in a book, Percival."

"'Mounts to the same thing," answered Percival, "if I have to dress like him. But just you wait. When I'm a little older, you'll see. Your hair looks funny too," turning the subject suddenly. "What makes it so dark at the roots, and so yellow everywhere else? Did you bleach it?"

"Yes;" said Bee humbly, her face flushing. "You see I have a cousin who is very beautiful, and I wished to look like her, so I had my hair bleached. I am sorry that I did it now, and I am letting it grow out.

Just as soon as it gets long enough to look well, I will have the yellow part cut off. Now do play, or your mother will be sorry that I came."

"Oh, she knows that I will play an hour longer," said the Prodigy easily, adjusting his violin. "I told her that I would, and I always do what I say I will."

Beatrice made no reply, and the lad began to play some s.n.a.t.c.hes of march music which grew wilder and more barbarous, changing at last to a wild mad waltz of wonderful rhythm. He was indeed a prodigy. His tone was marvelously pure, his technique fluent and delicate. He touched the secret feelings of the heart, and brought into play all the emotions.

The girl paled under the influence, and listened in rapturous silence.

Presently the boy stopped, turned toward her expectantly, and drew himself up in a stiff, martial att.i.tude. Beatrice gazed at him in wonderment, her breath coming quickly through her parted lips.

"Well?" he said impatiently. "Hurry up, and let's have it over with."

"Hurry up?" echoed Bee, rousing herself. "Hurry up what?"

"The kissing, of course. Get it over with quick! I want to go on playing. I'm in the mood."

"Go on playing then," cried Bee, a thread of indignation in her tone.

"I'm not going to kiss you."

"You're not?" The boy stared at her incredulously. "Why, you're a girl!

They all do it."

"Nonsense! I don't kiss boys."

"Not even if they are Infant Prodigies?"

"No; not even then," she returned. "I never heard of anything so absurd in my life."

"You haven't, eh? Let me tell you that I have. Wait! you'll be as bad as the rest of them."

He began to play again, watching her with curious half-shut eyes to note the effect. Nocturnes, obligatos, and finally the wonderful music of Chopin, followed in quick succession. The girl did not move, but sat like one entranced. All at once he paused, and bent toward her with an inviting smile.

"Now," he said in a winsome voice.

Bee did not stir, but gazed at him uncomprehendingly, too much absorbed to realize what he meant.

"Now," he repeated commandingly.

The girl roused herself.

"Oh," she breathed. "Are you going to stop? I think the angels must play like that!"

With an angry motion the lad thrust his bow into his left hand, and held out his right toward her.

"See that hand?" he demanded. Bee looked at it in perplexity.

"Yes; why?"

"That's the hand that made that music."

"Yes, I know," she answered gently. "It's ever so much smaller than mine, and whiter too." She held out her own slim brown hand and compared the two.

"Aren't they little bits of fingers?" went on the Prodigy. "Who would think that such little things could make such divine music? See the dimples at the knuckles! Aren't they dear?"

"Don't," cried Bee in disgust. "I was entranced with the music, and now you are spoiling it all by saying such foolish things."

"And don't you intend to kiss that hand?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Percival in astonishment.

"Of course not," answered Bee, rising. "I must go, Percival. Your playing is marvelous, and I do hope that you will let me listen to you again. Come over and see me. And I want you to meet my father. I wish you would play for him."

"Well, you are a funny girl! If I had played like that before an audience, the women and girls would have smothered me with kisses."

"I shouldn't think you would like it," exclaimed Bee.

"I wouldn't mind you," spoke Percival. "I wonder if it is because of the b.u.t.terflies that you are so different? Never mind! I'll fetch you yet. See if I don't."

"Good-bye," called Bee with a laugh, and darted through the opening in the hedge.

Chapter XII

The Arrival of Guests

"The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster flowers look With eyes of tender gloom."

--_W. D. Howells._

Master Percival returned Bee's visit the very next day.

"What did you do with that b.u.t.terfly that you caught?" he asked as he seated himself. "Why did you catch it anyway?"

"Father thought it an unusually fine one, and wished it for his collection," replied Bee. "You cannot see it now because it is not ready to set up yet, but I can show you some others, if you care to see them."

"I do care," he answered. "I never noticed those things until I saw you catching them."

"You didn't?" asked Bee in surprise, as she led the way to the laboratory. "How could you help noticing them?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's because I have not been in the country very much. What makes you like them?"

"They are so beautiful, Percival, for one thing. Then my father likes them. They are his specialty."