under-clothing could have withstood the iciness of her manner; but the
Brute did not freeze.

'I am sorry,' repeated Annette, well below zero, 'if my playing
disturbed you. I live in the room below, and I heard you knocking.'

'No, no,' protested the young man, affably; 'I like it. Really I do.'

'Then why knock on the floor?' said Annette, turning to go. 'It is so
bad for my ceiling,' she said over shoulder. 'I thought you would not
mind my mentioning it. Good afternoon.'

'No; but one moment. Don't go.'

She stopped. He was surveying her with a friendly smile. She noticed
most reluctantly that he had a nice smile. His composure began to
enrage her more and more. Long ere this he should have been writhing at
her feet in the dust, crushed and abject.

'You see,' he said, 'I'm awfully sorry, but it's like this. I love
music, but what I mean is, you weren't playing a _tune_. It was
just the same bit over and over again.'

'I was trying to get a phrase,' said Annette, with dignity, but less
coldly. In spite of herself she was beginning to thaw. There was
something singularly attractive about this shock-headed youth.

'A phrase?'

'Of music. For my waltz. I am composing a waltz.'