“I won’t be burned,” he said. “Sorry, but I won’t be burned. It seems to me, Sylvia, that you ought to like Michael a little more and a little less.” “It’s no use saying what I ought to do,” she said. “The idea of what I ‘ought’ doesn’t come in. I like him just as much as I like him, neither more nor less.” He clawed some more cushions together, and sat down on the floor by her. She raised herself a little and rested her body against his folded knees. “What’s the trouble, Sylvia?” he said. “Just what I’ve been trying to tell you.” “Be more concrete, then. You’re definite enough when you sing.” She sighed and gave a little melancholy laugh. “That’s just it,” she said. “People like you and me, and Michael, too, for that matter, are most entirely ourselves when we are at our music. When Michael plays for me I can sing my soul at him. While he and I are in music, if you understand--and of course you do--we belong to each other. Do you know, Hermann, he finds me when I’m singing, without the slightest effort, and even you, as you have so often told me, have to search and be on the lookout. And then the song is over, and, as somebody says, ‘When the feast is finished and the lamps expire,’ then--well, the lamps expire, and he isn’t me any longer, but Michael, with the--the ugly face, and--oh, isn’t it horrible of me--the long arms and the little stumpy legs--if only he was rather different in things that don’t matter, that CAN’T matter! But--but, Hermann, if only Michael was rather like you, and you like Michael, I should love you exactly as much as ever, and I should love Michael, too.” She was leaning forward, and with both hands was very carefully tying and untying one of Hermann’s shoelaces. “Oh, thank goodness there is somebody in the world to whom I can say just whatever I feel, and know he understands,” she said. “And I know this, too--and follow me here, Hermann--I know that all that doesn’t really matter; I am sure it doesn’t. I like Michael far too well to let it matter. But there are other things which I don’t see my way through, and they are much more real--” She was silent again, so long that Hermann reached out for a cigarette, lit it, and threw away the match before she spoke.