I am not praising his face for its beauty; there is little enough of that, as women might judge.

And besides, you will laugh at my ravings, and say that a singer is a singer, and nothing more, for all his life.

Well, we shall see in twenty years; you will,--perhaps I shall not.
"Nino," I asked, irrelevantly, following my own train of reflection, "have you ever thought of anything but music--and love ?" He roused himself from his reverie, and stared at me.
"How should you be able to guess my thoughts ?" he asked at last.
"People who have lived much together often read each other's minds.
What were you thinking of ?" Nino sighed, and hesitated a moment before he answered.
"I was thinking," he said, "that a musician's destiny, even the highest, is a poor return for a woman's love." "You see: I was thinking of you, and wondering whether, after all, you will always be a singer." "That is singular," he answered slowly.

"I was reflecting how utterly small my success on the stage will look to me when I have married Hedwig von Lira." "There is a larger stage, Nino mio, than yours." "I know it," said he, and fell back in his chair again, dreaming.
I fancy that at any other time we might have fallen into conversation and speculated on the good old-fashioned simile which likens life to a comedy, or a tragedy, or a farce.

But the moment was ill-chosen, and we were both silent, being much preoccupied with the immediate future.
A little before ten I made up my mind to start.