"Oui, mon Commandant," she answered.
"Chère artiste," he said; "chère artiste."
"Ah, those two voices," he went on with a sigh; "they go with you, wherever you are. It is music, that night of love and joy. And here we sit—"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mrs. Bracher, who did not care to have an evening of gaiety sag to melancholy; "how about a little César Franck?"
"Yes, surely," agreed the Commandant, cheerily; "our own composer, you know, though we never gave him his due."
Hilda ran through the opening of the D Minor.
"Now it is your turn," said she.
"My fingers are something stiff, with these cold nights by the window," replied the Commandant, "but certainly I will endeavor to play."
He seated himself at the instrument.