It moved in a tiny gavotte, or looked on at a minuet measure; it wailed, yet without being positively heard, in a little dirge of itself; it broadened into a march, it shouted in a bravura of rapid octaves, and finally asserted itself, heard once more, over a great scale base of bells.
Falbe, as was his habit when interested, sat absolutely still, but receptive and alert, instead of jerking and fidgeting as he had done over Michael's fiasco in the Chopin prelude, and at the end he jumped up with a certain excitement.
"Do you know what you've done ?" he said.

"You've done something that's really good.

Faults?
Yes, millions; but there's a first-rate imagination at the bottom of it.

How did it happen ?" Michael flushed with pleasure.
"Oh, they sang themselves," he said, "and I learned them.

But will it really do?
Is there anything in it ?" "Yes, old boy, there's King Wenceslas in it, and you've dressed him up well.