“Am I right, Madame, or is my thought ridiculous?”
He asked it so simply that she felt touched.
“I’m sure you could never be ridiculous,” she said quickly. “And perhaps you are right. I don’t know. That song makes me think and feel, and so I love it. Perhaps if you heard it alone—”
“Then I should hate it,” he interposed.
His voice was like an uncontrolled inner voice speaking.
“And not thought and feeling—” she began.
But he interrupted her.
“They make all the misery that exists in the world.”
“And all the happiness.”
“Do they?”