"To care for anything and make a failure of it—can you beat it for straight misery, Miss Vining?"
"Oh, please don't speak that way. I really am no judge of musical composition."
He considered the key-board gloomily; and resting one well-shaped hand on it addressed empty space:
"What's the use of liking to do a thing if you can't do it? Why the deuce should a desire torment a man when there's no chance of accomplishment?"
The girl looked at him out of her pretty, distressed eyes but found no words suitable for the particular moment.
Dankmere dropped the other hand on the keys, touched a chord or two softly, then drifted into the old-time melody, "Shannon Water."
His voice was a pleasantly modulated barytone when he chose; he sang the quaint and lovely old song in perfect taste. Then, very lightly, he sang "The Harp," and afterward an old Breton song made centuries ago.
When he turned Miss Vining was resting her head on both hands, eyes lowered.
"Those were the real musicians and poets," he said—"not these Strausses and 'Girls from the Golden West.'"
"Will you sing some more?"