"It is hardly a case of 'too', is it," Karen said, mildly amused.
"I don't know. Perhaps it is. One may look at a Memling after a Michael Angelo, you know. I wish you'd play to me."
"I am no Memling, I assure you."
"You can't, until I hear you. Do play to me. Brahms; a little Brahms."
"I have practised no Brahms for a long time. I find him too difficult."
"I heard you doing a Bach prelude yesterday; play that."
"Certainly, if you wish it, I will play it to you," said Karen, "though I do not think that you will much enjoy it."
Mrs. Talcott was in the morning-room over accounts; so Karen went with the young man into the music-room and opened the grand piano there.
She then played her prelude, delicately, carefully, composedly. She knew Mr. Drew to be musicianly; she did not mind playing to him.
More and more, Mr. Drew reflected, looking down at her, she reminded him of flower-brimmed, inaccessible mountain-slopes. He must discover some method of ascent; for the music brought her no nearer; he was aware, indeed, that it removed her. She quite forgot him as she played.