“Oh, now you’re fishing!”
“Sure I am—with such a lovely fish as you!”
“Oh, it’s terrible the way you talk.” Laughter—silvery peals—several peals. “But I mean, this grant opera soloist that’s down for our opening says you look so strong that she’s scared of you.”
“Oh, she is, is she! Are you? . . . Huh? . . . Are you? . . . Tell me!” Somehow her hand was inside his, and he squeezed it, while she looked away and blushed and at last breathed, “Yes, kind of.”
He almost embraced her, but—oh, it was a mistake to rush things, and he went on in his professional tone:
“But to go back to Sharon and our labors: it’s all right to be modest, but you ought to realize how enormously your playing adds to the spirituality of the meetings.”
“I’m so glad you think so, but, honest, to compare me to Miss Falconer for bringing souls to Christ—why she’s just the most wonderful person in the world.”
“That’s right. You bet she is.”
“Only I wish she felt like you do. I don’t really think she cares so much for my playing.”
“Well, she ought to! I’m not criticizing, you understand; she certainly is one of the greatest evangelists living; but just between you and I, she has one fault—she doesn’t appreciate any of us—she thinks it’s her that does the whole darn’ thing! As I say, I admire her, but, by golly, it does make me sore sometimes to never have her appreciate your music—I mean the way it ought to be appreciated—see how I mean?”