"Well," said the artist, laughing, "if you will prepare the dinner,
I'll risk undertaker, ancient woman, and all, rather than spend
such another long stupid evening as I did last night. I expected
to meet you at the concert garden again."
"That's strange," she said.
"I should say rather that I hoped to meet you and your father there.
Would you have gone if I had asked you?"
"I might."
"I'll set that down as one of the lost opportunities of life."
"Why didn't you listen to the music?"
"Well, I didn't. I thought I'd inflict my stupidity on you for
awhile, and came as far as your doorsteps before I remembered that
I had not been invited; so you see what a narrow escape you had."
In spite of herself Ida could not help appearing disappointed as
she said, a little reproachfully, "Would a friend have waited for
a formal invitation?"
"A friend did," replied Van Berg regretfully; "but he won't again."
"I'm not so sure about that; my music must have frightened you
away."
"I listened until I feared the police might think I had designs
against the house. I didn't know you were a musician. Miss Mayhew,
I'm always finding out something new about you, and I'm going to
ask you this evening to sing again for me a ballad the melody of
which reminded me of a running brook.
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