A crowd had collected to hear her, for she was playing out of the great silence that is in every soul, in that of the light-o'-love as well as of the saint, and she went on playing, apparently unaware of the number of people she had collected about her. She stopped playing and returned to me.
"You play beautifully; why did you say you didn't like Beethoven?"
"I didn't say I didn't like Beethoven; you know very well mamma can't play the 'Impassionata.'"
"Why aren't you always like this?"
"I don't know. One can't always be the same. I feel differently when I play; the mood only comes over me sometimes. I used to play a great deal; I only play occasionally now, just when I feel like it."
We walked through the alleys by the statues, seeing them hardly at all, thinking of the music.
"I must be getting back," she said. "You see, I've got to pack up. Mother can't do any packing; I've to do hers for her. I hope we shall meet again some day."
"What good would it be? I only like you when you're playing, and you're not often in the mood."
"I'm sorry for that; perhaps if you knew me better----"
"Now you're married, and I suppose Donald will come to Rome to fetch you?"