"What shall it be?" she inquired.
Some one thrust an open song-book on the rack in front of her. The
others gathered close about, leaning forward to see.
Song followed song, at first quickly, then at longer intervals. At
last the members of the chorus dropped away one by one to
occupations of their own. The girl still sat at the piano, her head
thrown back idly, her hands wandering softly in and out of melodies
and modulations. Watching her, Orde finally saw only the shimmer of
her white figure, and the white outline of her head and throat. All
the rest of the room was gray from the concentration of his gaze.
At last her hands fell in her lap. She sat looking straight ahead
of her.
Orde at once arose and came to her.
"That was a wonderfully quaint and beautiful thing," said he. "What
was it?"
She turned to him, and he saw that the mocking had gone from her
eyes and mouth, leaving them quite simple, like a child's.
"Did you like it?" she asked.
"Yes," said Orde. He hesitated and stammered awkwardly. "It was so
still and soothing, it made me think of the river sometimes about
dusk. What was it?"
"It wasn't anything. I was improvising."
"You made it up yourself?"
"It was myself, I suppose.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130