'Of music. For my waltz. I am composing a waltz.'
A look of such unqualified admiration overspread the young man's face that the last remnants of the ice-pack melted. For the first time since they had met Annette found herself positively liking this blackguardly floor-smiter.
'Can you compose music?' he said, impressed.
'I have written one or two songs.'
'It must be great to be able to do things—artistic things, I mean, like composing.'
'Well, you do, don't you? You paint.'
The young man shook his head with a cheerful grin.
'I fancy,' he said, 'I should make a pretty good house-painter. I want scope. Canvas seems to cramp me.'
It seemed to cause him no discomfort. He appeared rather amused than otherwise.
'Let me look.'