Oswald saw with surprise that if the doctor distinguished any one in the company, it could only be Miss Helen, and with still greater surprise, that the young lady, when speaking to him, laid aside a part of her haughty reserve. They had made music together before dinner, playing a sonata for four hands; then Helen had sung a few songs, while the doctor accompanied her. At table they sat by each other, and conversed with animation about the different styles of music; the doctor displaying a thorough knowledge of composition, and Miss Helen at least a lively appreciation of matters of music; and when he took leave, directly after dinner, she regretted his eagerness to go so warmly, and begged him so earnestly to be sure and send the promised music very soon,--no, rather to bring it himself, so that they might play it together,--that the doctor might have boasted of a great success if it had been his intention to make a favorable impression on the young lady. "You are not fond of music?" he asked Oswald, whom he had accompanied to his room for the few minutes till the horses should be ready. "No, and the harmony of sweet notes has so few attractions for me that I closed my window last night when Miss Helen sang that barcarolle which seemed to give you such delight." "That is indeed remarkable. I do not remember ever having heard such a--what shall I say--such a mystic alto voice." "Might not the beauty of the performer affect the impartiality of the judgment?" "No; I assure you I judge quite impartially, although I must admit that such spiritual beauty seems to belong more to the realm of dreams than to stern reality." The doctor had taken a seat in Oswald's arm-chair, and blew the smoke of his cigar, which he had just lighted, in blue clouds through the open window. "Hers is a beauty," he said, "that would drive a painter to despair, because her most delicate bloom cannot be expressed by lines and colors; music alone can translate it. I wish Beethoven had seen her, or Robert Schumann, and then you ought to hear the ghost-like, demoniac composition which she would have inspired!" "But which of us is now the enthusiast?" asked Oswald, smiling; "you or I?" "You!" said the doctor, "for the highest grade of ecstasy is silence. He who still finds words for his enthusiasm has the reins still in his hands. And then I can see a beautiful girl and admire her, without enjoying, as you see, my cigar any the less. But you are capable of forgetting eating and drinking and everything else, of throwing yourself head over heels into the Charybdis of your enthusiasm, without bestowing a thought upon the way out!" "Are you quite sure of that?"