“I—I was happy. I loved the music.”
“You can tell almost everything in music.”
“If you have anything to tell.”
“How droll you are—so literal.”
“Miss Brock——” said René. They were walking very slowly now. They had turned down the last lighted street before the darkness of Galt’s Park. It gaped before them, inviting, menacing, romantic, rousing him to a mood of antagonism to the growing fascination she was exercising over him.
“Droll?” he said. “I don’t know. I mean what I say, though. I can’t always say what I mean.”
“Who can?” asked she.
“I mean, suppose you have a feeling for anything, for your father or your mother or something beautiful, and the feeling is so big that it can’t get out——”
“One gets to think,” said Linda in a quiet little voice, soothing, caressing, “that men don’t have feelings like that.”