THE SONG OF THE LARK
a little before two o clock. He was smoking a cheap cigarette and wore the same soft felt hat he had worn all last winter. He never carried a cane or wore gloves.
Thea followed him from the reception-room into the studio. "I may cut my lesson out to-morrow, Mr. Bowers. I have to hunt a new boarding-place."
Bowers looked up languidly from his desk where he had begun to go over a pile of letters. "What 's the matter with the Studio Club? Been fighting with them again?"
"The Club 's all right for people who like to live that way. I don't."
Bowers lifted his eyebrows. "Why so tempery?" he asked as he drew a check from an envelope postmarked "Minneapolis."
"I can't work with a lot of girls around. They 're too familiar. I never could get along with girls of my own age. It s all too chummy. Gets on my nerves. I did n't come here to play kindergarten games." Thea began energetically to arrange the scattered music on the piano.
Bowers grimaced good-humoredly at her over the three checks he was pinning together. He liked to play at a rough game of banter with her. He flattered himself that he had made her harsher than she was when she first came to him; that he had got off a little of the sugar-coating Harsanyi always put on his pupils.
"The art of making yourself agreeable never comes amiss, Miss Kronborg. I should say you rather need a little practice along that line. When you come to marketing your wares in the world, a little smoothness goes farther than a great deal of talent sometimes. If you happen to be cursed with a real talent, then you 've got to be very smooth indeed, or you 'll never get your money back." Bowers snapped the elastic band around his bank-book.
Thea gave him a sharp, recognizing glance. "Well, that 's the money I 'll have to go without," she replied.
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