But he had no notion of
talking for long about Hortense. He preferred returning to the weather.
"And what does such a day do for you?" he asked.
"Oh, I suppose it helps me in a general way. But _my_ notes, of
course, are on paper already."
Yes, he was walking alongside her and holding his own--thus far. She seemed
a pretty enough, graceful enough little thing; not so tall by an inch or so
as she appeared when seated behind that samovar. On that day she had been
reasonably sprightly--toward others, even if not toward him. To-day she
seemed meditative, rather; even elegiac--unless there was a possible sub-
acid tang in her reference to Hortense's color-notes. Aside from that
possibility, there was little indication of the "dexterity" which Randolph
had asked him to beware.
"On paper already?" he repeated. "But not all of them? I know you compose.
You are not saying that you are about to give composition up?" A forced and
awkward "slur," perhaps; but it served.
She gave a little sigh. "Pupils don't want _my_ pieces," she said.
"Scales; exercises..."
"I know," he returned. "Themes,--clearness, mass, unity.
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