Finally it came. I said, “I wish we could have dinner here together.”
Then I dug my nails into my palms, standing very still there, and tried to breathe.
I felt her relax, and move a little.
“I am not hungry,” she said.
After a minute, as I still waited, she added—“Though I don't know that it makes any difference—if you wish.”
“Of course not,” said I clumsily—“just having a little food brought in.”
So I rang for the China boy, and cleared the phonograph and cylinders and papers and ash-tray off my little iron table, and we had dinner there. Though first she slipped into her room, drew the door to, and changed from her gray kimono to a simple blue frock that I thought very becoming.
After the meal, we sat back without saying anything in particular until she grew restless, and finally pushed her chair back.
“I wish,” said I, “before you go, that you would sing that Franz song again for me. And let your voice out a little. I want to hear it.”
I thought her eyes grew suddenly moist. But without the slightest hesitation, without rising, even, she began the song—“Aus Meinen Grossen Schmerzen.”