“I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, pale, in ghastly fears—
Ah, she did depart!”
He broke off in the middle.
“Can’t you keep with the accompaniment?”
She raged inwardly—flushing face, brilliant eyes.
“Isn’t the accompaniment to keep with the singer?”
“No; with the song. And since you don’t know that, listen to what I’m doing. Hurry those eighths, and hold the ‘G.’ That phrase is ‘pensieroso.’ Don’t sing it like a drinking-song.”
“There is nothing to say so! How do you know?”