"
"But if they don't know it--"
"They do know it; but not my share in it."
For a little distance they strolled along in silence. Then Phebe asked
abruptly,--
"You said, that night at Quantuck, that you were in the middle of some
work, when I ran into you. Did I break it up entirely; or have you ever
finished it?"
"Then you haven't seen the papers?" he asked, with boyish egotism.
"Yes, I always read them. What then?"
"My symphonic poem is to come out soon."
"Oh, I don't ever read the music notes. I don't know much about
music, anyway."
"And care less?" he asked a little shortly.
"Oh, I don't mind it much. I don't often go to concerts; but I like it
behind palms at receptions."
For a moment, he looked at her, in doubt whether or not she was jesting.
Then as her face suggested no humorous intent, his color came.
"What about it?" she inquired. "How is it coming out?"
"I didn't know as you would be interested."
"Of course. I am interested in you, even if I don't care a fig for your
music," Phebe answered, with a bluntness that should have been death to
sentiment.
"It is going to be given in New York, on the twelfth of December," he
said, and Phebe wondered at the slight catch in his breath. "I'm to
conduct the orchestra, you know. I have sent for Mrs. Farrington to come
down and bring Miss Cicely, and--I wondered--do you suppose--at least,
could you make time to run over and join them in my box?"
Phebe clasped her hands rapturously.
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