He began humming: 'I arise from dreams of thee.' She picked it up, very softly, in a floating, velvety pianissimo.
His own voice died out. He couldn't sing.
He felt almost despondent. What was the matter with him! Time passed. Now and then she hummed other songs—bits of Schumann and Franz. Schubert's Serenade she sang through.
'Sing with me,' she murmured.
He shook his head. 'Sometimes I feel like singing, and sometimes I don't.'
'Don't I make you feel like singing, Henry?'
'Oh yes, sure!'
'You're a moody boy, Henry.'
'Oh yes, I'm moody.'
She closed her eyes. He watched the dim vast lake for a while; then finding her almost limp in his arms, bent again over her face. 'I'm a fool,' he thought. He could have sobbed again. He bit his lip. Then kissed her. It was the first moment he had been able to. Her hand slipped over his shoulder; her arm tightened about his neck.