"That's lovely," put in Wheeler. "Sing it!" Eugene had thought that possibly she sang, but he was not prepared for the burst of color that came with her voice. It was not a great voice, but sweet and sympathetic, equal to the tasks she set herself. She selected her music as she selected her clothes--to suit her capacity. The poetic, sympathetic reminiscence of the song struck home. Eugene was delighted. "Oh," he exclaimed, bringing his chair close to the piano and looking into her face, "you sing beautifully." She gave him a glittering smile. "Now I'll sing anything you want for you if you go on like that." "I'm crazy about music," he said; "I don't know anything about it, but I like this sort of thing." "You like the really good things. I know. So do I." He felt flattered and grateful. They went through "Otidi," "The Nightingale," "Elegie," "The Last Spring"--music Eugene had never heard before. But he knew at once that he was listening to playing which represented a better intelligence, a keener selective judgment, a finer artistic impulse than anyone he had ever known had possessed. Ruby played and Angela, the latter rather well, but neither had ever heard of these things he was sure. Ruby had only liked popular things; Angela the standard melodies--beautiful but familiar. Here was someone who ignored popular taste--was in advance of it. In all her music he had found nothing he knew. It grew on him as a significant fact. He wanted to be nice to her, to have her like him. So he drew close and smiled and she always smiled back. Like the others she liked his face, his mouth, his eyes, his hair. "He's charming," she thought, when he eventually left; and his impression of her was of a woman who was notably and significantly distinguished. CHAPTER XXI