"Your singing? Oh no! It was a pleasant-tasting little kernel in a very
rough rind--I should like one without the other."

"You talk in riddles, Yoletta; but I'm afraid the answers to them would
not sound very flattering to me. But if you would like to know the song
I shall be only too glad to teach it to you. The words are in Italian,
but I can translate them."

"The words?" she said absently.

"The words of the song," I said.

"I do not know what you mean by the words of a song. Do not speak to me
now, Smith."

"Oh, very well," said I, thinking it all very strange, and sitting down
I divided my attention between my beautiful hose and Yoletta, still
slowly pacing the floor with that absent look on her face.

At length the curious mood changed, but I did not venture to talk any
more about music, and before very long we repaired to the eating-room,
where, for the next two or three hours, we occupied ourselves very
agreeably with those processes which, some new theorist informs us,
constitute our chief pleasure in life.

That evening I overheard a curious little dialogue. The father of the
house, as I had now grown accustomed to call our head, after rising from
his seat, stood for a few minutes talking near me, while Yoletta, with
her hand on his arm, waited for him to finish. When he had done
speaking, and turned to her, she said in a low voice, which I, however,