He flushed again and stammered:
"Nein, nein; it is not yet born."
Her eyes were on the shifting light.
"Will you play it to me when it is done?" she asked softly.
"You know that I will."
She waited a moment.
"You have never dedicated a song to me," she said slowly. "There are the four to my father—but he is the count; and the one last year for Marie—why to Marie?—and one for them all. But not one least little song for me!" The words had dropped under her breath. Her dark eyes were veiled. No one could say whether they laughed now.
He looked up with a swift, brusque gesture.
"They are all yours; you know it." The low voice rebuked her gently. "For six years they are yours—all that I have done." The face was turned toward her. It was filled with pleading and a kind of gentle beauty, clumsy and sweet.
She did not look at it.