'I have deceived myself--in my quest of sympathy,' he said.

'Can you be sure that, in your quest of sympathy, you are not deceiving
yourself tonight?'

'Yes,' he cried quickly, 'I can.' And he sprang up and almost ran to the
piano. 'You remember the D flat Prelude?' he said, breaking into the
latter part of the air, and looking at me the while. 'When I came to that
note and caught your gaze'--he struck the B flat and held it--'I knew
that I had found sympathy. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Do you
remember?'

'Remember what?'

'The way we looked at each other.'

'Yes,' I breathed, 'I remember.'

'How can I thank you? How can I thank you?'

He seemed to be meditating. His simplicity, his humility, his kindliness
were more than I could bear.

'Please do not speak like that,' I entreated him, pained. 'You are the
greatest artist in the world, and I am nobody--nobody at all. I do not
know why I am here. I cannot imagine what you have seen in me. Everything
is a mystery. All I feel is that I am in your presence, and that I am not
worthy to be. No matter how long I live, I shall never experience again
the joy that I have now. But if you talk about thanking me, I must run
away, because I cannot stand it--and--and--you haven't played for me, and