I looked into those clear, earnest eyes; they were as blue as the tropic midnight sky—and as expressive.
For a moment I could not speak. Then she said: “What is the name of the piece you have just played?”
I felt embarrassed. Even as she spoke I heard in the distance the rollicking songs and the shanty oaths to which I had become so accustomed.
As I looked up into the eyes of that girl, her wind-blown hair fluttering into thick tresses that fell about her shoulders, I recovered my mental faculties and responded:
“The piece that I have just played is called—Pauline!”
For a moment she stared at me. I was brave enough at times and I gazed back defiantly. I knew I had a right to call my improvisations by any name that I chose.
At first she responded with a smile that thrilled me. Then her pretty mouth rippled into laughter.
“That is my name,” she said.
“I know it is,” I replied.
I began to tremble. I cursed my shabby suit; only the brass buttons told of better days. My soul cried within me. I yearned to be attired in such a material as God has fashioned for his angels. I felt that I was some earthy, soddened being, one not even fitted to play a violin to so ethereal a creature.