"Somehow, I am af-raid that you do not, really, like the place where
you are playing."

"It is a fine, a splendid park, my Anna," Kreutzer cried in haste. "I
am a grumbler--an old grumbler. My only real cause for complaint is
that I must play so very loud for some" (his heart was sore with a
humiliation of the night before), "while, for others, it is necessary
that I plays so s-o-f-t-l-y--lest my flute disturb their
conversation. I am puzzled, Anna, that is all. Quite all. There is no
cause for you to worry." He placed his hand upon her shoulder, and, as
he sank wearily to the stiff, wooden chair which was as easy as the
room could boast, she dropped to her knees beside him.

Her heart was very full. Vividly she longed to tell him that the love,
of which he had discoursed to her, had not come in the least as he had
said it would--summoned by his counsel after he had searched and found
the man whom he decided would be best for her to marry. No; love had
not approached her logically, rationally, as result of careful thought
by a third party; it had come, instead, as might a burglar, breaking
in; an enemy, making an assault upon an unsuspecting city in the
night. She had yielded up the treasures of the casket of her heart
without a murmur to the burglar; the city had capitulated without
fighting, without even protest. She was sure he would not find it
easy to approve of her selection.

So she was not ready, yet, to tell him; she was not ready to destroy
the happiness of this, their day together, as she feared that such a
revelation must, inevitably.

"Hard times, father!" she said, temporizing. "But perhaps, sometime,