Experimentally, he said, "If putting what you feel into your work is greatness, then _you_ are a great artist, for your music does make one feel as though it came from the mountains, themselves." She was frankly pleased, and cried intimately, "Oh! do you like my music?
I so wanted you to." It did not occur to her to ask when he had heard her music.

It did not occur to him to explain.

They, neither of them, thought to remember that they had not been introduced.

They really should have pretended that they did not know each other.
"Sometimes," she continued with winsome confidence, "I think, myself, that I am really a great violinist--and then, again,"-- she added wistfully,--"I know that I am not.

But I am sure that I wouldn't like to be famous, at all." He laughed.