“Yes. Because you are a great artist—and a brave man!” she said, gulping. “You are not to despair. Your music is in your soul—your brain. Other people shall play it for you.”
He calmed down.
“At least I am not deaf, like Beethoven,” he said, trying to please her. “That would have been worse. Do you know, last night Falloden and I had a glorious talk? He was awfully decent. He made me tell him all about Poland and my people. He never scoffed once. He makes me do what the doctor says. And last night—when it was freezing cold—he brought a rug and wrapped it round me. Think of that!”—he looked at her—half-shamefaced, half-laughing—“Falloden!”
Her eyes shone.
“I’m glad!” she said softly. “I’m glad!”
“Yes, but do you know why he’s kind—why he’s here at all?” he asked her abruptly.
“What’s the good of silly questions?” she said hastily. “Take it as it comes.”
He laughed.
“He does it—I’m going to say it!—yes, I am—and you are not to be angry—he does it because—simply—he’s in love with you!”
Connie flushed again, more deeply, and he, already alarmed by his own boldness, looked at her nervously.