“I imagine music must make feelings and paint pictures in the minds of the people who hear it,” Bibbs went on, musingly, “according to their own natures as much as according to the music itself. The musician might compose something and play it, wanting you to think of the Holy Grail, and some people who heard it would think of a prayer-meeting, and some would think of how good they were themselves, and a boy might think of himself at the head of a solemn procession, carrying a banner and riding a white horse. And then, if there were some jubilant passages in the music, he'd think of a circus.”
They had reached her gate, and she set her hand upon it, but did not open it. Bibbs felt that this was almost the kindest of her kindnesses—not to be prompt in leaving him.
“After all,” she said, “you didn't tell me whether you liked it.”
“No. I didn't need to.”
“No, that's true, and I didn't need to ask. I knew. But you said you were trying to keep from telling me what it did mean.”
“I can't keep from telling it any longer,” he said. “The music meant to me—it meant the kindness of—of you.”
“Kindness? How?”
“You thought I was a sort of lonely tramp—and sick—”
“No,” she said, decidedly. “I thought perhaps you'd like to hear Dr. Kraft play. And you did.”
“It's curious; sometimes it seemed to me that it was you who were playing.”