Mr. Jennings broke it. "I think I had better go," he remarked.
"Had you?" I almost whispered. "Well" and acquiesced.
"Unless," he added, "you'll sing me something. Do you sing—or play?"
"A little," I confessed.
"Well, will you then?"
"Why, yes, if you want me to." And I went over and sat down before the familiar keys.
It was at that moment that I knew at last why I had taken lessons for so many years; why so much money had been put into expensive instruction, and so many hours devoted to daily practise. It was for this—for this particular night—for this particular man. I saw it in a flash. I sang a song in English. "In a Garden," it was called. Softly I played the opening phrases, and then raised my chin a little and began. My voice isn't strong, but it can't help but behave nicely. It can't help but take its high notes truly, like a child who has been taught pretty manners ever since he could walk.
After I had finished Mr. Jennings said nothing for an instant. Then, "Sing something else," he murmured, and afterward he exclaimed, "I didn't know! I had no idea! Your sister never told me this!" Then, "I have come to a very lovely part in the beautiful book I discovered," he said to me. "It makes me want never to finish the book. Sing something else."
