As he lied away her fears his soul was bitterly inquiring what his
daughter who had such respect for him and for his music, would think
if she could hear him as he stood upon a rough-board platform, or sat
beside a cheap piano, pounded by a colored youth who kept a glass of
beer on one end and a cigarette upon the other as he played. What
would Anna think of her old father if she heard him tootle on his
flute, with all the breath which he could muster, the strains of "Hot
Time," an old favorite, or "Waltz Me Around Again, Willie," not quite
so old, but infinitely more offensive than the frank racket of the
negro melody to his sensitive ear? How would her artistic soul revolt
if she should hear his flute--his precious flute!--inquiring if
anybody there had seen an Irishman named Kelly?

"What do they like best, my father?" Anna asked him, still looking
searchingly into his face, as if she saw signs there which did not
reassure her. "Mozart, possibly, or Grieg?"

"I think it is 'An Invitation to the Dance,'" said he, and smiled
again, more sweetly, more convincingly than ever. "'Around, around,
around!'" he muttered, bitterly, sarcastically, as he turned away from
her.

"What, father?"

"That melody, so sweet; those words, so full of lovely sentiment--they
cling in my old mind, my liebschen," said Herr Kreutzer, to cover up
his error. "They what you call it? Keep running in my head--ah,
around, around within my head, my liebschen."