His swift development was a source of surprise and interest.  She detected unguessed finenesses in him that seemed to bud, day by day, like flowers in congenial soil.  She read Browning aloud to him, and was often puzzled by the strange interpretations he gave to mooted passages.  It was beyond her to realize that, out of his experience of men and women and life, his interpretations were far more frequently correct than hers.  His conceptions seemed naive to her, though she was often fired by his daring flights of comprehension, whose orbit-path was so wide among the stars that she could not follow and could only sit and thrill to the impact of unguessed power.  Then she played to him—­no longer at him—­and probed him with music that sank to depths beyond her plumb-line.  His nature opened to music as a flower to the sun, and the transition was quick from his working-class rag-time and jingles to her classical display pieces that she knew nearly by heart.  Yet he betrayed a democratic fondness for Wagner, and the “Tannhauser” overture, when she had given him the clew to it, claimed him as nothing else she played.  In an immediate way it personified his life.  All his past was the Venusburg motif, while her he identified somehow with the Pilgrim’s Chorus motif; and from the exalted state this elevated him to, he swept onward and upward into that vast shadow-realm of spirit-groping, where good and evil war eternally.

Sometimes he questioned, and induced in her mind temporary doubts as to the correctness of her own definitions and conceptions of music.  But her singing he did not question.  It was too wholly her, and he sat always amazed at the divine melody of her pure soprano voice.  And he could not help but contrast it with the weak pipings and shrill quaverings of factory girls, ill-nourished and untrained, and with the raucous shriekings from gin-cracked throats of the women of the seaport towns.  She enjoyed singing and playing to him.  In truth, it was the first time she had ever had a human soul to play with, and the plastic clay of him was a delight to mould; for she thought she was moulding it, and her intentions were good.  Besides, it was pleasant to be with him.  He did not repel her.  That first repulsion had been really a fear of her undiscovered self, and the fear had gone to sleep.  Though she did not know it, she had a feeling in him of proprietary right.  Also, he had a tonic effect upon her.  She was studying hard at the university, and it seemed to strengthen her to emerge from the dusty books and have the fresh sea-breeze of his personality blow upon her.  Strength!  Strength was what she needed, and he gave it to her in generous measure.  To come into the same room with him, or to meet him at the door, was to take heart of life.  And when he had gone, she would return to her books with a keener zest and fresh store of energy.

She knew her Browning, but it had never sunk into her that it was an awkward thing to play with souls.  As her interest in Martin increased, the remodelling of his life became a passion with her.