She sank into a
chair, and tried pathetically to smile across at Orde.
"I'm such a baby about disappointments," said she.
"I know," he replied, very gently.
"And it's such a blue and gold day."
"I know," he repeated.
She twisted her glove in her lap, a bright spot of colour burning in
each cheek.
"Mother is not well, and she has a great deal to try her. Poor
mother!" she said softly, her head cast down.
"I know," said Orde in his gentle tones.
After a moment he arose to go. She remained seated, her head down.
"I'm sorry about this afternoon," said he cheerfully, "but it
couldn't be helped, could it? Jane used to tell me about your harp
playing. I'm going to come in to hear you this evening. May I?"
"Yes," she said, in a stifled voice, and held out her hand. She sat
quite still until she heard the front door close after him; then she
ran to the curtains and looked after his sturdy, square figure, as
it swung up the street.
"Well done; oh, well done, gentle heart!" she breathed after him.
Then she went back to the piano.
But Orde's mouth, could she have seen it, was set in grim lines, and
his feet, could she have heard them, rang on the pavement with quite
superfluous vigour.
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