“I have come North to study music,” said Theodosia impressively.
“Music! Ah, there you have me.” He spoke with a new soberness.
“Do you like it?”
“I like it almost better than anything else in the world—too much, and yet not enough, after all.” He shook his head with a quick, somber gesture. “I’ll help you with the music, if you’ll let me. Did you notice how very quickly we became acquainted? Yes? I know now why; it puzzled me at first. It was the music in you to which I responded—I can tell you just what little song of Schubert’s your smile is from, if you’ll give me time.”
“No,” said Dosia, “it isn’t from Schubert at all, and you’ll never find the key-note to it, so you needn’t try.” She could not help daring a little, in her girlishness.
He laughed. “Oh, I shall make it my business to find out. For what else what I constituted your guardian at the beginning of your career? And it’s so good of you to say that I can come to-morrow and pour out my heart to you! Shall it be at five? No, please don’t trouble to answer; I like to look at your ear in that position—it’s so pearly. Too personal again? Then let us converse about your Old Kentucky Home.”
“It isn’t in Kentucky,” interpolated Dosia desperately, but there was no stopping him. He was so irrelevantly absurd that she succumbed at last entirely, and hardly knew when they left the train; when they walked up the path to her cousin’s door, they were both laughing causelessly and irresponsibly, in delightful comradeship.
He turned to Dosia after he had rung the bell and said, “Good night.”
“Aren’t you coming in to see my cousin?”
“Oh, yes; but this is our farewell. Please make it as touching as you can.”