They entered an open square; before them lay the Church of St. Charles. Emil hailed a driver who had fallen asleep, sitting on the footboard of his open carriage. "It is such a fine night," said Emil; "we can still indulge in a short drive before I take you to your hotel--shall we?" The carriage started off. Emil had taken off his hat; she laid it in her lap, an action which also afforded her pleasure. She took a sidelong glance at Emil; his eyes seemed to be looking into the distance. "What are you thinking of?" "I ... To tell the truth, Bertha, I was thinking of a melody out of the opera, which that man I was telling you about played to me this afternoon. But I can't get it quite right." "You are thinking of melodies now ..." said Bertha, smiling, but with a slight-tone of reproach in her voice. Again there was silence. The carriage drove slowly along the deserted Ringstrasse, past the Opera House, the Museum and the public gardens. "Emil?" "What do you want, my darling?" "When shall I at last have an opportunity of hearing you play again?" "I am playing at a concert to-day, as a matter of fact," he said, as if it were a joke. "No, Emil, that was not what I meant--I want you to play to me alone. You will do that just once ... won't you? Please!" "Yes, yes." "It would mean so much to me. I should like you to know that there was no one in the room except myself listening to you." "Quite so. But never mind that now, though." He spoke in such a decided tone of voice that it seemed as if he was defending something from her. She could not understand for what reason her request could have been distasteful to him, and she continued: "So then it is settled: to-morrow at five o'clock in the evening at your house?" "Yes, I am curious to see whether you will like it there." "Oh, of course I shall. Surely it will be much nicer being at your house than at that place where we have been this evening. And shall we spend the evening together? Do you know, I am just thinking whether I ought not to see my cousin...." "But, my dearest one, please, don't let us map out a definite programme." In saying this he put his arm round her neck, as if he wanted to make her feel the tenderness which was absent from the tone of his voice. "Emil!" "Well?" "To-morrow we will play the Kreatzer Sonata together--the Andante at least." "But, my dear child, we've talked enough about music; do let us drop the subject. I am quite prepared to believe that you are immensely interested in it." Again he spoke in that vague way, from which she could not tell whether he really meant what he said or had spoken ironically. She did not, however, venture to ask. At the same time her yearning at that moment to hear him play the violin was so keen that it was almost painful.