"Go back and sing again," she said to him, taking no notice of his words; "I did not know you ever sang———"
"Every Italian does;—or well or ill," he answered her. "We are born with music in us, like the birds."
"But in society who hears you?"
"No one. An atmosphere of gas, candles, ennui, perfume, heat, and inane flatteries! ah no, Madame—music is meant for silence, moonlight, vinepaths, summer nights———"
"This is winter and firelight, a few arm-chairs and a great deal of street noise; all the same, go back and sing me more."
She spoke indifferently and lightly, leaning her hand back on her chair, and hiding a little yawn with her hand; she would not have him see that he had touched her to any foolish, momentary weakness. But he had seen. He smiled a little.
"As you command," he answered, and he went back and made her music as she wished; short love lyrics of the populace, sonnets set to noble airs, wild mournful boat-songs, and
