The count walked to the open window and stood for a moment staring into the darkness. Then he wheeled about.
"What was it you played?" he said swiftly.
"A Hungarian air," replied Schubert briefly.
"It was your own," he said.
"Partly," admitted the musician.
The count nodded.
"I thought so." He glanced toward the piano. "It is not too late——"
Schubert shrugged his shoulders.
"I told the child—you heard—I cannot play it again, that music."