the name of this so charming an air! It is of an opera, most surely. Yet not even will the opera remind his name to me! What you call him, dear child?"
Sylvie looked round at him with a rapt expression of face. She had ceased playing, but her fingers still wandered fitfully over the keys. All fear and shyness had quite passed away now, and nothing remained but the pure joy of the music that had thrilled our hearts.
"The title of it!" the Count repeated impatiently. "How call you the opera?"
"I don't know what an opera is," Sylvie half-whispered. "How, then, call you the air?"
"I don't know any name for it," Sylvie replied, as she rose from the instrument.
"But this is marvellous!" exclaimed the Count, following the child, and addressing himself to me, as if I were the proprietor of this musical prodigy, and so must know the origin of her music. "You have heard her play this, sooner—I would say 'before this occasion'? How call you the air?"
I shook my head; but was saved from more questions by Lady Muriel, who came up to petition the Count for a song.
The Count spread out his hands apologetically, and ducked his head. "But, Milady, I have already respected—I would say prospected—all your songs; and there shall be none fitted to my voice! They are not for basso voices!"
"Wo'n't you look at them again?" Lady Muriel implored.
"Let's help him!" Bruno whispered to Sylvie. "Let's get him—you know!"
Sylvie nodded. "Shall we look for a song for you?" she said sweetly to the Count.
"Mais oui!" the little man exclaimed.
