He ran over the melody with phrases his fingers seemed to linger in and love—unexpected intervals, elusive rhythms—and gave her a look that said, “Come.” She had to stoop to see the words. These, too, were strange to her:
“Never seek to tell thy love—
Love that never told can be!
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.”
After all, it was too much. He dared not give himself up to it. He forced himself to technicalities.
He stopped her. “Listen to the time,” he said, and played it over.
She sang it after him without the accompaniment, and faltered at an unaccustomed interval.
He played it again with the patience given a child’s stupidity.
She sang, hating him with her every note: