This time she could track it definitely to its origin.
A lover's favourite song is one that has been sung by his love.

She detected herself now in the full apprehension of the fact before she had sung a bar: it had been a very dim fancy: and she denounced herself guilty of the knowledge that she was giving pain by singing the stuff fervidly, in the same breath that accused her of never feeling things at the right moment vividly.

The reminiscences of those pale intuitions made them always affectingly vivid.
But what vanity in our emotional state in a great jarring world where we are excused for continuing to seek our individual happiness only if we ally it and subordinate it to the well being of our fellows! The interjection was her customary specific for the cure of these little tricks of her blood.

Leaving her friend Miss Barrow at the piano, she took a chair in a corner and said; 'Now, Mr.O'Donnell, you will hear the music that moves me.' 'But it's not to be singing,' said Patrick.

'And how can you sing so gloriously what you don't care for?
It puzzles me completely.' She assured him she was no enigma: she hushed to him to hear.
He dropped his underlip, keeping on the conversation with his eyes until he was caught by the masterly playing of a sonata by the chief of the poets of sound.
He was caught by it, but he took the close of the introductory section, an allegro con brio, for the end, and she had to hush at him again, and could not resist smiling at her lullaby to the prattler.