And old Flint smiled, as he answered her: "What shall you play?
Anything you like, my dear.

You know best--only, don't make it too classical.

Your old father isn't up to that ultra music, you know, and never will be!" She smiled again with understanding, and turned to the keyboard.

Then, without notes, and with a delicate touch of perfectly modulated interpretation, she began to render "Trauemerei," as though she, too, had been dreaming of something that might have been.
Flint listened, with perfect content.

The music soothed and quieted him.
Even the foreknowledge of the difficult task that lay before him, the interview that he must have with his daughter, faded from his mind, a little, and left him wholly calm.