"Maria, you are very cool about it. I suppose you don't mind a bit about going." "I should break my heart about it if I did not know I must go one day, and that the sooner I go the sooner I shall return,--to all I want, at least. But I have it not in my power to say I will do this, or will not have that, as it is my brother who educates me, and to whom I am indebted." "If you go, Maria, I shall not see you for years and years." "You will not mind that after a little time." "Maria, I have never loved to talk to any one so well." "If that is the only reason you are sorry, I am very glad I go." She smiled as she spoke, but not a happy smile. I could see she was very sad, and, as it were, at a distance from her usual self. "Maria, you have not told me one word about the symphony." "You did not ask me." "Were you so proud, then? As if I was not dying to see it, to hear it; for, Maria, don't tell me you would be contented without its being heard." "I am not contented at all, Carl. I am often discontented,--particularly now." "About Anastase? Does not Anastase approve of your writing?" "He knows nothing of it. I would not tell him for a world; nor, Carl, would you." "I don't know. I would tell him if it would do you any good, even though you disliked me to do so." "Thanks; but it would do me no good. Florimond is poor: he could not collect an orchestra; and proud: he would not like me to be laughed at." "Then what is it, Maria?" "Carl, you know I am not vain." I laughed, but answered nothing; it was too absurd a position. "Well, I am dying of thirst to hear my first movement, which is written, and which is that sight to my eyes that my ears desire it to the full as much as they. The second still lingers,--it will not be invoked. I could, if I could calculate the effect of the first, produce a second equal to it, I know. But as it is yet in my brain, it will not give place to another." "You have tried it upon the piano,--try it for me." "No, I cannot, Carl. It is nothing thus; and, strange to say, though I have written it, I cannot play it." "I can believe that." "But no one else would, Carl; and therefore it must be folly for me to have undertaken this writing,--for we are both children, and I suppose must remain so, after all." It struck me that the melancholy which poured that pale mask upon her face was both natural and not unnecessary,--I even delighted in it; for a thought, almost an idea, flashed straight across my brain, and lighted up the future, that was still to remain my own, although that dazzle was withdrawn. I knew what to do now, though I trembled lest I should not find the way to do it. "So, Maria, you are not going to finish it just now. Suppose you lend it to me for a little. I should like to examine it, and it will do me good."