"My father," Gistla said seriously, "can do very wonderful things. He is a musician."
George's father leaned forward, blinking amusedly. "Really? What does he play?"
"Play?" asked Gistla.
"Yes. He's a musician. He must play something, some kind of instrument."
Gistla looked at George, but George did not know what to say. He wished he had never tried to do this. He wished he had just ignored his family and gone on loving Gistla in the privacy of his own emotions.
"Well, now," Mr. Kenington was saying rather impatiently. "Does he play something like our violin or clarinet or oboe, or what?" His father, George had noticed, was becoming impatient more frequently since he had become Secretary. The Secretarial post was very important.
"He does not play anything," Gistla said carefully. "He just ... makes the music and I hear it."
"But how?" Mr. Kenington insisted. "What does he play the music on? He certainly can't make the music without using something to make it on."
Gistla glanced again at George and he said quickly, "It's pretty hard to understand, Father. I don't think—"
"No, now don't interrupt just now, son. This is very interesting. We'd like to know what she's talking about."