“Ah, yes,” he exclaimed eagerly, “you feel as I. Is it not always ungemüthlich, three people together?”
“Always.”
He glanced about them at the crowd of passers-by.
“It is not pleasant here; let us take a walk by the river, and then we can talk and come to know each one the other,”—he paused—“well,” he added.
“Do you really want to know me—well?” she asked, imitating his pause between the last two words.
“Yes, very much. I saw you in the hotel this morning when you came down the stair, and I wanted to know you then. And just now when we passed on the Quai I felt the want become much greater.”
“And I wanted to know you,” she said, looking and speaking with delicious frankness. “I wanted to know you because of your music.”
“Because of my music!” he repeated quickly; “you are then of interest in the music? you are yourself perhaps a musician?” and he turned a glance, as deep as it was burning, upon her face.
“A very every-day musician,” she replied, lifting her smile to his deep attention. “I can accompany the musician and I can appreciate him, that is all.”
“But that is quite of the best—in a woman,” he exclaimed earnestly. “The women were not meant to be the genius, only to help him, and rest him after his labor.”