“It seems impossible,” said Illey. “You are one of those who like the painted landscape more than the real, live country. I don’t want to smell the violet in the scent bottle, but at the edge of the woods.”
Walter looked suddenly at Anne and then, as if comparing her with Thomas.
“Mr. Illey, you seem to me like the music of the Tsigans.”
“Tsigan music,” repeated Anne thoughtfully, “and I, what am I?”
“You are a song by Schubert,” answered the musician.
“The two don’t fit well together.... Do light a cigar, professor. But, of course, you want to make music.”
But that day Adam Walter did not draw his violin from its case. A small nosegay was in it. It was meant for Anne, but it remained there too. He took it away with him, out into the snow, back into the white Christmas night.
When he came again he brought a larger bunch of flowers. It was a poor, ungainly bunch wrapped up in a newspaper. He put it awkwardly on the piano near Anne, and became more and more embarrassed.
“Please don’t thank me, it is not worth it. I thought of it quite by chance.”
Something flashed into Anne’s face which resembled pain. She did not hear Walter’s voice any more, she knew no more that he had brought her flowers; all she remembered was that Thomas never, never gave her flowers.