music of the tizanes rose in notes of passionate ecstasy and
sharp, unexpected bursts of melody. It ceased and be-an
again, as though the musicians were feeling their way, and
then burst out once more into shrill defiance. It stirred
Carlton with a strange turbulent unrest. From the banks the
night wind brought soft odors of fresh earth and of heavy
foliage.

"The music of different countries," Carlton said at last,
"means many different things. But it seems to me that the
music of Hungary is the music of love."

Miss Morris crossed her arms comfortably on the rail, and he
heard her laugh softly. "Oh no, it is not," she said,
undisturbed. "It is a passionate, gusty, heady sort of love,
if you like, but it's no more like the real thing than
burgundy is like clear, cold, good water. It's not the real
thing at all."

"I beg your pardon," said Carlton, meekly.

"Of course I don't know anything about it." He had been waked
out of the spell which the night and the tizanes had placed
upon him as completely as though some one had shaken him
sharply by the shoulder. "I bow," he said, "to your superior
knowledge. I know nothing about it."

"No; you are quite right. I don't believe you do know
anything about it," said the girl, "or you wouldn't have made
such a comparison."