The other walked along beside her in silence. After all, why not? Why should he be surprised? From one end of the world to the other printer's ink was spreading and bringing light. But a goose-girl who read Heine!
"And the music?" he inquired presently.
"That is mine"—with the first sign of diffidence. "Melodies are always running through my head. Sometimes they make me forget things I ought to remember."
"Your own music? An impresario will be discovering you some fine day, and your fortune will be made."
The light irony did not escape her. "I am only a goose-girl."
He felt disarmed. "What is your name?"
"Gretchen."
"What else?"
"Nothing else"—wistfully. "I never knew any father or mother."
"So?" This was easier for the other to understand. "But who taught you to read?"