“Anything at all.”
“But wouldn’t you rather—”
“Play somethin’ you like yourself,” she interrupted.
Carstairs hesitated. He had not had the faintest idea how difficult it would be. Moreover, he could feel her soft brown eyes resting on him. And he had been vowing such wonderful deeds of late: that he would play for her as he never had for any one—that he would play her composition, which belonged so naturally to her. Instead, he could scarcely touch a key.
A spirit of self-condemnation took possession of him. He must forget himself. She would think him a fool. Besides, she might learn how much he—No, she must not learn that. He commenced improvising.
The young composer blundered considerably at first, but his self-resentment helped him, and his efforts soon displayed more coherence and warmth. Should he open his program with “To Thee”? Why not? Why wait until later? But she might understand. She might catch its significance and then—But how could she know that he had written the composition? It might just as easily belong to some other composer. Yes, he would play it.
“Are you ready?” he asked with attempted levity.
“Of course, don’t stop!” she encouraged him.
Carstairs played “To Thee”, at first, with timidity and uncertainty, but by and by with more resolution and consequent expressiveness as his faith in the composition, as an expression of himself, returned. Gradually, too, he realized how appropriate was the mood that flowed through its measures.
Erna watched him. A greedy little smile played about the corners of her mouth and her nose twitched slightly. But the corners straightened and her nose stopped twitching.