“You didn’t go into comedy-drama, after all?” he said, remembering her interest in that form of art.

“No,” she answered; “I haven’t, so far.”

He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realized she had failed.  It moved her to add:  “I want to, though.”

“I should think you would,” he said.  “You have the sort of disposition that would do well in comedy-drama.”

It surprised her that he should speak of disposition.  Was she, then, so clearly in his mind?

“Why?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your nature.”

Carrie smiled and colored slightly.  He was so innocently frank with her that she drew nearer in friendship.  The old call of the ideal was sounding.

“I don’t know,” she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all concealment.

“I saw your play,” he remarked.  “It’s very good.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Very good, indeed,” he said, “for a comedy.”

This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but later they met again.  He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests.  Hard work had given his face the look of one who is weary.  It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her.

“All alone?” she said.

“I was listening to the music.”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” said her companion, who saw nothing in the inventor.

Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he sat.

“Isn’t that a pathetic strain?” he inquired, listening.

“Oh, very,” she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was called.

“Sit down,” he added, offering her the chair beside him.

They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling, only hers reached her through the heart.  Music still charmed her as in the old days.

“I don’t know what it is about music,” she started to say, moved by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; “but it always makes me feel as if I wanted something—­I——­”

“Yes,” he replied; “I know how you feel.”

Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly.

“You ought not to be melancholy,” he said.

He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation which, however, accorded with their feelings.

“The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can occupy but one at a time.  It doesn’t do us any good to wring our hands over the far-off things.”

The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, as if to rest himself.

“Why don’t you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?” he said.  He was looking directly at her now, studying her face.  Her large, sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment.