"What music have you brought?" she asked.
"I cannot tell what books you will need until I hear you," he replied.
"You'd better get me Bach's studies," she said carelessly.
"Won't you play?" he asked, "and then I can judge."
"Not now," replied Hélène, and then she went on again, telling him of herself, her life, her aims and ambitions, her predilections and prejudices. She seldom referred to her father, and mentioned her mother only occasionally. "How I do ramble on, don't I? I seem to have known you for years."
"You are very happy, are you not?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" she replied. There seemed to be a tinge of sadness in her manner, a sort of mental reservation as to her happiness that she did not like to confess even to herself. "Yes, I think I am," she said finally.
"Why not?" he answered. "Here all is peaceful, beautiful and harmonious. What surroundings you have!" and he looked around, "beautiful art objects to look at, the beautiful park at your very window. Here all is beauty, joy, peace, without and within. Your architect was a fine artist, or is it your own taste—all this?"
Hélène nodded. "I designed this part of the house myself," she replied. "The tapestry and pictures and statuary of course add greatly to its general appearance, but you are quite right—the architect was an artist."
"He must have been," commented Von Barwig, looking about approvingly.