They have all fine livers"-- lightly touching a goose with her willow stick.
"What, the hotels ?"--humorously.
"No, no, my geese!" "What was that song you were singing before the horses came up ?" "That?
It was from the poet Heine"-- simply.
He stared at her with a rudeness not at all intentional.
"Heine?
Can you read ?" "Yes, Herr." The other walked along beside her in silence.

After all, why not?
Why should he be surprised?
From one end of the world to the other printer's ink was spreading and bringing light.

But a goose-girl who read Heine! "And the music ?" he inquired presently.
"That is mine"-- with the first sign of diffidence.

"Melodies are always running through my head.

Sometimes they make me forget things I ought to remember." "Your own music?
An impresario will be discovering you some fine day, and your fortune will be made." The light irony did not escape her.