"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.
"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."
She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste, so that the sound did not jar me—but the inference hurt a little. I said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet commonplace air said all sorts of things to me—Desire to live again, and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures—How could this little iceberg of a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it had not been for the interest this problem caused me, the longing the sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.
No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a stone—.
From this she suddenly turned to Debussy—she played a most difficult thing of his—I can't remember its name—then she stopped.
"Do you like Debussy?" I asked.
"No, not always."
"Then why did you play it?"
"I supposed you would."
"If you had said in plain words, 'I think you are a rotter who wants first dance music, then an unrestful modern decadent, brilliantly clever set of disharmonies,' you could not have expressed your opinion of me more plainly."