She went quickly over to the bookcase of music by the piano.
“Come, then, let’s sing and forget,” she said. “Hermann always said the artist was of no nationality. Let’s begin quick. These are all German songs: don’t let’s have those. Ah, and these, too! What’s to be done? All our songs seem to be German.”
Michael laughed.
“But we’ve just settled that artists have no nationality, so I suppose art hasn’t either,” he said.
Sylvia pulled herself together, conscious of a want of control, and laid her hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“Oh, Michael, what should I do without you?” she said. “And yet—well, let me sing.”
She had placed a volume of Schubert on the music-stand, and opening it at random he found “Du Bist die Ruhe.” She sang the first verse, but in the middle of the second she stopped.
“I can’t,” she said. “It’s no use.”
He turned round to her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said. “But you know that.”