Octavia Crochet gave her father the score. He looked, over his thick glasses, under his thicker eyebrows, and from his old armchair, down at his daughter.
“No need to quaver,” he told Octavia. “I’m sure I’ll like it. Composition is your forte. You take a rest now, to stave off fatigue.”
“You know,” she replied, “One of my friends complains that her father has no sense of humor.”
“Yes, you did mention that. What do you call her?”
“Lucky.”
Octavia thought she heard her father playing the new piece on the piano that night. The following morning, she asked him, “That thing I gave you yesterday. Did you play it last night? Or did I dream I heard you playing it?”
“Both.”
“You played it so well.”
“Then you must have been dreaming.”
“Dad, you’re a great pianist.”
“Thank you, darling, but I’m only half the pianist that Maestro Minim is.”
“I don’t like him, or the way he plays. He’s so empty.”
Her father replied only with a look that was kind, but somehow sad. After a pause, Octavia asked,”So, what did you think?”