“Yes.”
“Oh, this is a nice soft chair.”
Carstairs walked about a while. He was so nervous that he did not know what to do. Nevertheless, he realized that he must offer to entertain her. At least, he must say something.
But Erna spoke first. “What makes you walk around?”
“Oh nothing,” he returned abruptly, looked about in confusion and finally selected the piano stool, which, however, was so close to Erna’s chair that his confusion grew. The girl, herself, had betrayed a little embarrassment once or twice, but she had conquered its last sign. This was perhaps possible because of her enjoyment of Carstairs’ rather pathetic condition. Erna loved and craved praise or flattery, and the young composer’s substitute for them was certainly a decided tribute.
“It’s awful nice here,” she repeated.
“I’m glad you think so,” he responded gratefully, and glanced toward her, only to look away.
“It’s kind o’ restful too.”
This was an excellent opening.
“You must be very tired,” he declared.