He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared an occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in a t�te-�-t�te conversation. I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to sing — good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and, in his fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in listening when the performance was good.

No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, began to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song. He said I was a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing another time; but I averred that no time was like the present.

“Did I like his voice?” he asked.