He played. She sang. At once he found her just as she had been on the first occasion. She entered the heroic world of music as a matter of course, as though it were her own. He tested her yet further, and went on to a second song, then to a third, more passionate, which let loose in her the whole gamut of passion, uplifting both herself and him: then, as they reached a very paroxysm, he stopped short and asked her, staring straight into her eyes:
"Tell me, what woman are you?"
Anna replied:
"I do not know."
He said brutally:
"What is there in you that makes you sing like that?"
She replied:
"Only what you put there to make me sing."
"Yes? Well, it is not out of place. I'm wondering whether I created it or you. How do you come to think of such things?"
"I don't know. I think I am no longer myself when I am singing."