That inelegant phrase, by the mere vibrating, warm nobility of the
sound, found its way into Heyst's heart. His mind, cool, alert, watched
it sink there with a sort of vague concern at the absurdity of
the occupation, till it rested at the bottom, deep down, where our
unexpressed longings lie.
"You are English, of course?" he said.
"What do you think?" she answered in the most charming accents. Then, as
if thinking that it was her turn to place a question: "Why do you always
smile when you speak?"
It was enough to make anyone look grave, but her good faith was so
evident that Heyst recovered himself at once.
"It's my unfortunate manner--" he said with his delicate, polished
playfulness. "It is very objectionable to you?"
She was very serious.
"No. I only noticed it. I haven't come across so many pleasant people as
all that, in my life."
"It's certain that this woman who plays the piano is infinitely more
disagreeable than any cannibal I have ever had to do with."
"I believe you!" She shuddered. "How did you come to have anything to do
with cannibals?"
"It would be too long a tale," said Heyst with a faint smile. Heyst's
smiles were rather melancholy, and accorded badly with his great
moustaches, under which his mere playfulness lurked as comfortable as a
shy bird in its native thicket. "Much too long.
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