Frei was humming, with a bland and childlike look on his face. He picked up his violin from the desk where he had laid it and put it into its case.
“Will you not sup, too?” she asked him.
“No, I thank you.” He came toward her. “My body needs no salads, for my soul is satisfied. I have found a place where there is no criticism; where the memorial fountains of kindness are unsealed—and the waters do arrive. Here, in Roseborough—‘here, where all hearts are tender and sincere’—surely I shall find at last a beautiful woman to love me for myself alone.”
“Why not?” she said kindly. “It is given to every man....”
She stopped in quoting what she, herself, had said to him in the orchard, because of the change in his face. He strode forward and gazed intently into her eyes.
“Ach!” he cried, as if she had now burst upon his sight for the first time. “You are beautiful!” He seized her hand. “Could you love me for myself alone?”
“Oh—oh!” She was startled. “I think your music would share in any love given to you,” she parried.
“That I permit. My music is me.”
“Oh, yes; but—it is also Tschaikowsky, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin....”
Instantly his head drooped and his face was overcast with gloom.