wrong. You just have to keep at it." She explained, "To learn a new sound, we'll steep your ears in it. You listen and listen, then try it. I observe the movement of your lips and jaw, infer the position of your tongue and palate, the openness of your throat passage. By watching, I can often tell you what you're doing wrong, then help you get your organs of speech into the right position to produce the desired sound."
He smiled slightly at the term organs of speech. It was a game to him. He was bored.
She felt lost, a woman swimming in knowledge she didn't know how to get into him. She continued, "Occasionally I won't be able to tell by simply looking why your pronunciation is off. But there are other means of determining the problem. For throat sounds, for instance, there's the laryngoscope." She opened the table drawer and produced a small mirror fixed obliquely to a handle.
He glanced at it, and his smile became unsure, a half-smile of misgiving.
"You see, I hold this inside your mouth at the back and reflect a ray of light down your throat. This way, I can see in the mirror just how your throat is opening and closing."
He laughed uncomfortably, but kept listening.
"I can also objectively tell the positions of your tongue by exploring your mouth with my fingers—"
"Wait." He held up his hand, chortling now. "You gonna be puttin' your fingers in me mouth?"
"Perhaps. Most likely, just my little finger against your gum so I can feel the position of your tongue."
His eyebrows drew up at that. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, smiling, shaking his head. "Well, this be gettin' good."
"Is," she said. "This is getting good."
"Bloody right, it is."
She squinted. Is. He used it correctly. But he had the wrong idea. "We'll see if you still feel that way after the palatagraphic."
"That'd be what?"
"What is that?" she advised.
"All right, what is that?"
"A thin artificial palate that goes into your mouth with some chalk dust on it. You say a sound, then I infer the position of your tongue on your palate from the contact marks."
"So you're gonna be in my mouth a lot tonight? Do I got that right?"
Impatiently, she told him, "Mr. Tremore, I'm not used to your bawdy suggestions with regard to what is my job and a serious business—"
"Bawdy?"
"Vulgar. Indecent."
"I know what bawdy means," he said. "I just be surprised you find me enjoyin' your finger in me mouth vulgar. You be the one puttin' it there." He shook his head, laughing at her. "You know, loovey, what men and women get up to ain't indecent. It's about the most decent thing on the English island. Even the good Queen went at it. The whole world knows she was keen for Albert, and she got nine children, so that many times at least."
Edwina was unable to say anything for a moment. Nothing seemed more inappropriate than his implicating the Queen in one of his ribald digressions. "Sir," she said, "I don't know where to begin in telling you that what m-men"—she actually stammered—"men and women g-get up to—"
"Easy, loov. You be a virgin, I know that." He said it without batting an eyelash, as if this presumption of his, all the more annoying for being accurate, were supposed to console her.
Edwina opened her mouth, shut it, didn't know what to say for a good half a minute. Finally, she told him, "Gentlemen, sir, don't speak of such things."
He looked at her, tilting his head. With his arms crossed, his vest pulled across the back of his shoulders. Then he raised one arm off the vest and stroked his mustache, once, twice, with the back of his knuckle. "That be a fact?"
"Yes," she insisted.
"I bet gentlemen know the word virgin."
"Well, yes"—she struggled a moment—"I'm sure they do. But they don't say it."
He leaned toward her a little. "Then how to do they learn it? Someone says it."
Edwina pressed her lips together, a little annoyed, a little turned-around. "Well, they probably say it among other gentlemen—"
"This
He smiled slightly at the term organs of speech. It was a game to him. He was bored.
She felt lost, a woman swimming in knowledge she didn't know how to get into him. She continued, "Occasionally I won't be able to tell by simply looking why your pronunciation is off. But there are other means of determining the problem. For throat sounds, for instance, there's the laryngoscope." She opened the table drawer and produced a small mirror fixed obliquely to a handle.
He glanced at it, and his smile became unsure, a half-smile of misgiving.
"You see, I hold this inside your mouth at the back and reflect a ray of light down your throat. This way, I can see in the mirror just how your throat is opening and closing."
He laughed uncomfortably, but kept listening.
"I can also objectively tell the positions of your tongue by exploring your mouth with my fingers—"
"Wait." He held up his hand, chortling now. "You gonna be puttin' your fingers in me mouth?"
"Perhaps. Most likely, just my little finger against your gum so I can feel the position of your tongue."
His eyebrows drew up at that. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, smiling, shaking his head. "Well, this be gettin' good."
"Is," she said. "This is getting good."
"Bloody right, it is."
She squinted. Is. He used it correctly. But he had the wrong idea. "We'll see if you still feel that way after the palatagraphic."
"That'd be what?"
"What is that?" she advised.
"All right, what is that?"
"A thin artificial palate that goes into your mouth with some chalk dust on it. You say a sound, then I infer the position of your tongue on your palate from the contact marks."
"So you're gonna be in my mouth a lot tonight? Do I got that right?"
Impatiently, she told him, "Mr. Tremore, I'm not used to your bawdy suggestions with regard to what is my job and a serious business—"
"Bawdy?"
"Vulgar. Indecent."
"I know what bawdy means," he said. "I just be surprised you find me enjoyin' your finger in me mouth vulgar. You be the one puttin' it there." He shook his head, laughing at her. "You know, loovey, what men and women get up to ain't indecent. It's about the most decent thing on the English island. Even the good Queen went at it. The whole world knows she was keen for Albert, and she got nine children, so that many times at least."
Edwina was unable to say anything for a moment. Nothing seemed more inappropriate than his implicating the Queen in one of his ribald digressions. "Sir," she said, "I don't know where to begin in telling you that what m-men"—she actually stammered—"men and women g-get up to—"
"Easy, loov. You be a virgin, I know that." He said it without batting an eyelash, as if this presumption of his, all the more annoying for being accurate, were supposed to console her.
Edwina opened her mouth, shut it, didn't know what to say for a good half a minute. Finally, she told him, "Gentlemen, sir, don't speak of such things."
He looked at her, tilting his head. With his arms crossed, his vest pulled across the back of his shoulders. Then he raised one arm off the vest and stroked his mustache, once, twice, with the back of his knuckle. "That be a fact?"
"Yes," she insisted.
"I bet gentlemen know the word virgin."
"Well, yes"—she struggled a moment—"I'm sure they do. But they don't say it."
He leaned toward her a little. "Then how to do they learn it? Someone says it."
Edwina pressed her lips together, a little annoyed, a little turned-around. "Well, they probably say it among other gentlemen—"
"This
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