182 IN A WINTER CITY,
" Go back and sing again," she said to him,
taking no notice of his words; " I did not laiow
you ever sang------"
" Every ItaUan does;—or weU or Ul,** he an¬
swered her. " We are born with music ia us,
Uke the bfrds.**
*' 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, moon-
Ught, vinepaths, summer nights------"
" This is winter and fireUght, a few arm-
chafrs and a great deal of street noise; all the
same, go back and sing me more."
She spoke indifferently and Ughtly, leaning
her hand back on her chair, and hiding a Uttle
yawn with her hand; she would not have him
see tha^ he had touched her to any foolish,
momentary weakness. But he had seen. He
smUed 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