"Know the Chanson de Florian?"
"Of course."
"Well, it's light sort of trash, but it has a melody. I've written my own obbligato to it. If you like I'll play it with you."
"I don't like, at all, thank you."
"You owe me something for spoiling my andante when you came in. I played wretchedly after that. You did something to me; I was too conscious of you to get back into the music. Won't you sing for me?" His manner was quite amenable now; his splendid eyes held and made appeal to her.
"But I'm an amateur," she answered, still obdurate. "And amateurs don't count."
"It isn't every amateur I'd ask. Come on!" He caught up his violin. "Ready, Carlos?" he said to the accompanist.
Pat gave her little, reckless laugh. "Oh, very well!"
She sang. It seemed to her that she was in exceptionally good voice, inspired and upheld by the golden stream of counter-melody which surged from the violin. At the close he looked at her intently and in silence.
"Well?" queried Pat, thrilling with expectancy of merited praise.