“I confess I had not thought of it in that way,” he said, humbly.  “I have only regarded it as a necessary every-day evil; and to be quite honest with you, I fail to see now how it can inspire enthusiasm.  I wish I could see,” he added, looking up at the engaging little figure before him.

“Never mind,” she said, laughing at his distress; “I forgive you.  And, after all, you are not the only person who looks upon it as a necessary evil.  My poor old guardian abominated it.  He made many sacrifices to come and listen to me.  He knew I liked to see his kind old face, and that the presence of a real friend inspired me with confidence.”

“I should not have thought it was nervous work,” he said.

“Try it and see,” she answered.  “But surely you spoke of singing.  Are you not nervous when you sing?”

“Sometimes,” he replied, rather stiffly.  “But that is slightly different.” (He was very proud of his singing, and made a great fuss about it.) “Your profession, as I remarked before, is an unavoidable nuisance.  When I think what I have suffered from the gentlemen of your profession, I only wonder that I have any brains left.  But I am uncourteous.”

“No, no,” she said; “let me hear about your sufferings.”

“Whenever I have specially wanted to be quiet,” he said—­and then he glanced at her childish little face, and he hesitated.  “It seems so rude of me,” he added.  He was the soul of courtesy, although he was an amateur tenor singer.

“Please tell me,” the little girl said, in her winning way.

“Well,” he said, gathering himself together, “it is the one subject on which I can be eloquent.  Ever since I can remember, I have been worried and tortured by those rascals.  I have tried in every way to escape from them, but there is no hope for me.  Yes; I believe that all the tuners in the universe are in league against me, and have marked me out for their special prey.”

“All the what?” asked the little girl, with a jerk in her voice.

“All the tuners, of course,” he replied, rather snappishly.  “I know that we cannot do without them; but good heavens! they have no tact, no consideration, no mercy.  Whenever I’ve wanted to write or read quietly, that fatal knock has come at the door, and I’ve known by instinct that all chance of peace was over.  Whenever I’ve been giving a luncheon party, the tuner has arrived, with his abominable black bag, and his abominable card which has to be signed at once.  On one occasion I was just proposing to a girl in her father’s library when the tuner struck up in the drawing-room.  I left off suddenly, and fled from the house.  But there is no escape from these fiends; I believe they are swarming about in the air like so many bacteria.  And how, in the name of goodness, you should deliberately choose to be one of them, and should be so enthusiastic over your work, puzzles me beyond all words.  Don’t say that you carry a black bag, and present cards which have to be filled up at the most inconvenient time; don’t—­”