"Come here, Jenny," he said. She nestled by his side.
"Poons," he said sternly in German, "how long has this been going on?"
"I don't know, Herr Von Barwig," replied Poons, in a low voice.
"Jenny, do you approve of his action?"
"I don't know, professor, I—" Jenny laid her head on his shoulder and Von Barwig knew that she loved the young man.
"Scoundrel!" began Von Barwig, turning to Poons. He tried to be serious, but the expression on Poons's face made him smile in spite of himself. Poons begged him to speak to Jenny for him; he pleaded so hard that Jenny asked Von Barwig if he was talking about her.
"Ask him if he likes me!" said Jenny innocently.
"I will," replied Von Barwig, and he turned to Poons. "Do you love her?" he asked.
Poons's reply was a torrent of burning love, a flood of words that let loose the pent-up emotion of a highly strung musical temperament that for months had longed for utterance. The way he poured out the German language surprised both his hearers; it seemed as if he could not restrain himself. In vain did Von Barwig try to stem the onward rush of the tidal wave of talk, for declaration followed on declaration, until Poons had completely poured out all he had wanted to tell Jenny for months. He only stopped then because he had fairly exhausted the subject.
"What did he say?" asked Jenny anxiously.