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.