“But I shan’t like you at all if you see things in that way. I’ll never dare come into your presence.”
“Oh, yes, you will. I do not observe for the purpose of criticising; especially I never criticise a woman or a girl to her detriment.”
“That is very gallant, at any rate,” answered the girl, accenting the word “gallant” strongly on the second syllable, as all Virginians of that time properly did, and as few other people ever do. “But tell me what you started to say, please?”
“What was it?”
“Why, you said you knew me a good deal. I thought you were going to tell me what you knew about me.”
“Well, I’ll tell you part of what I know. I know that you have a low pitched voice—a contralto it would be called in musical nomenclature. It has no jar in it—it is rich and full and sweet, and while you always speak softly, your voice is easily heard. I should say that you sing.”
“No. I must not sing.”
“Must not? How is that?”
The girl seemed embarrassed—almost pained. The young man, seeing this, apologized:
“Pardon me! I did not mean to ask a personal question.”