"Why, I—I don't know. I—I'd love it, ma if—if you think, Esther, I'd better."
"You don't need to be afraid of me, darlink. There's nothing can give me strength to bear—what's before me like—like my boy's music. That's my life, his music."
"Why, yes; if mamma is sure she feels that way, play for us, Leon."
He was already at the instrument, where it lay swathed, atop the grand piano.
"What'll it be, folks?"
"Something to make ma laugh, Leon—something light, something funny."
"'Humoresque'?" he said, with a quick glance for Miss Berg.
"'Humoresque,'" she said, smiling back at him.
He capered through, cutting and playful of bow, the melody of Dvorak's, which is as ironic as a grinning mask.
Finished, he smiled at his parent, her face still untearful.