“Oh, Venetian Moon! That reminds me of something. Do songs mean things to you? Do certain tunes bring back certain thoughts and feelings to you?”
“Sure, whenever I hear Poor Butterfly I think of Lorna Doone. I can’t trace the connection exactly, but I always do.”
“It must have been played somewhere when you read it,” she says. The record is finished, and the needle scrapes with a harsh sound. “It’s all rusty,” she adds. “I’m going to have it fixed up. I’m tired of the radio anyway. I’d rather choose what I want to hear.”
“Here’s Tea for Two. That was a pretty good one.”
“Yes,” she sighs. “I was kissed for the first time when that was being played. What a fearfully old record!”
Wind up the machine again and put it on, then hold out your arms. “Let’s dance.”
She glides to you. After the first few bars kiss her lightly. She stops, pushing you away. “What’s the idea?” she demands.
“I was just trying to revive old memories,” you explain. “Come on and finish; I’ll be good. Say, you’re a peach of a dancer.”
“Thanks,” she says, going back to the Victrola. “Whose old memories were you reviving then?”
“Oh, don’t be funny,” you grumble. “Here’s a real old-timer.” Hold it up for her to read; it is the Merry Widow Waltz.