"What shall it be?" she asked, and he forgot the mirror.
"The song you sang under my window."
"But that is for the male voice!"
"You sang it very well, nevertheless. I have a good memory, too." He leaned forward, his arms crossed on his knees. Was there ever, in all the world, such an Arabian night?
She sang, but without that buoyant note of the first night. One after another he called out the popular airs of the old light operas. She had them all on her tongue's end.
"Light opera appeals to you?" She had followed in the mirror his slightest move. Was she disappointed?
Where had he seen that copy of Botticelli before? If only there was a little more light.
"Pardon me," he said. "You asked—?"
She repeated her question, wondering what had drawn his attention.
"I like my grand opera after dinner. After dinner I shall want Verdi, Berlioz, Gounod."