“I’m glad to meet you,” she said, with such a smile that René felt once and for all that she was beautiful, and was so confused by his own enthusiasm that he did not take the hand she proffered, and put her to the awkwardness of withdrawing it.
“I—I——” He looked desperately up and down the road, but could find no topic, and ended lamely by saying:
“I—I like your brother.”
“Oh! Kurt! But I am glad to have met you. I hoped you would be at the Smallmans last Sunday. I was so disappointed.” Her voice too was beautiful in its friendly, emphatic cadences.
“I—I wasn’t asked.”
“Oh, you aren’t asked. You go. Everybody goes.”
(He had never been able to identify himself with everybody, or to take everybody’s doing for a reason for his own.)
She went on:
“I wanted to ask you if you would care to come and hear me play at the Goetheverein—that’s the German club—next Wednesday. It’s a good program; Schubert, Beethoven, Brahms. You’ll love Beethoven.”
“My mother plays, but her piano has yellow keys, and the music is faded like the keys.”