"I could listen to it every day, and never get tired of listening. Don't you think that if a song gives anyone that—feeling, there must be some good in it?"
"Of course it's far better than most; but—"
"But not equal to those classical songs you told me about—the first time I saw you, wasn't it? Yes, Schubert: was that the name? I mean to get those, and you must show me the best ones, and play the accompaniments, and then I shall judge for myself."
"I shall make an awful mess of the accompaniments; they're not precisely easy, you know."
"Full of accidentals, are they? I sha'n't like them, then. I never do like that sort of song."
"But you will; you must."
"Must I?" she almost whispered, in tones of gentle, feminine surrender. And after a second or two: "Then I'll try, if it will keep you in a good temper."
They stood fronting the sea. She looked straight ahead into the darkening distance, and then turned round to him with a mock plaintive expression, and they both laughed.
"Wouldn't it be better up by the river," he suggested, "where there are fewer people?"