‘Oh, you’ve done it!’ he said at length—‘you’ve done it! You evidently have a gift for libretto. It is neither more nor less than perfect! And the subject is wonderful!’
He rose, walked round the table, and, taking my head between his hands, kissed me.
‘Magda,’ he said, ‘you’re the cleverest girl that was ever born.’
‘Then, do you think you will compose it?’ I asked, joyous.
‘Do I think I will compose it! Why, what do you imagine? I’ve already begun. It composes itself. I’m now going to read it all again in the garden. Just see that I’m not worried, will you?’
‘You mean you don’t want me there. You don’t care for me any more.’
It amused me to pretend to pout.
‘Yes,’ he laughed; ‘that’s it. I don’t care for you any more.’
He departed.
‘Have no fear!’ I cried after him. ‘I shan’t come into your horrid garden!’