"No," she said; "I speak of them because I am interested. Do you not
believe me? It is quite true; you yourself have said that I should
make a good florist; already I have learnt a great deal, although I
have not been here long, and knew nothing before I came."

"That is so," he admitted; "you are very clever. Nevertheless, I do
not think, if you were alone now, you would be thinking of plants. You
were not when I met you; it was the Revolution, or, perhaps, human
nature--you called it the Revolution in a parable, as you often do
when you speak your thoughts."

"Why do you trouble about my thoughts?" Julia said, impatiently. "How
do you know what I think?"

"Perhaps I don't," he answered; "only sometimes it seems to me your
voice tells me though your words do not."

"My voice?"

"Yes; it is full of notes like a violin, and speaks more than words. I
suppose all voices have many notes really, but people do not often use
them; they use only a few. You use many; that is why I like to listen
to you when you talk to my parents, or any one. It is like a master
playing on an instrument; you make simple words mean much, more than I
understand sometimes; you can caress and you can laugh with your
voice; I have heard you do it when I have not been able to understand
what you caress, or at what you laugh, any more than an ignorant
person can understand what the violin says, although he may enjoy to
hear it. To-night you do not caress or laugh; there is something black