"It isn't going to be so bad," he answered. "Moszkowski,
Chaminade,--quite a little of Chopin for that matter,--will go pretty
well on it."

"Did you bring my songs?" she asked.

From the chair that he had thrown his blouse upon, he produced a flat
package neatly wrapped in brown paper. And as she went over to the window
with it, tearing the wrappers away as she walked, he went back to his
work at the piano.

"Don't do that," she said, as he struck a chord or two. "I can't read if
you do." But almost instantly she added with a laugh, "Oh, all right, go
ahead. I can't read this anyway. Why, it's frightful!" She came swiftly
toward the piano and stood the big flat quires of score paper on the
rack. "Show me how this goes," she commanded, but he pushed back a little
with a gesture almost of fright.

"No," he protested sharply. "I can't. I can't begin to play that stuff."

She remained standing beside his shoulder, looking at the score.

"They're strange words," she said, and began reading them to herself,
half aloud, haltingly.

"'Low hangs the moon. It rose late,
It is lagging--O I think it is heavy with love, with love.'"

"Walt Whitman," he told her. "They're all out of a poem called