Oh, oh, OH! I'm so glad to get you!
You're the light of my life; you're my whole life itself!"--she
smiled at him from her perch on his knee--"I'm silly, am I not?" she
said. "Dear heart, don't leave me again."
"I've got to support an extravagant wife, you know," Orde reminded
her gravely.
"I know, of course," she breathed, bending lightly to him. "You
have your work in the world to do, and I would not have it
otherwise. It is great work--wonderful work--I've been asking
questions."
Orde laughed.
"It's work, just like any other. And it's hard work," said he.
She shook her head at him slowly, a mysterious smile on her lips.
Without explaining her thought, she slipped from his knee and glided
across to the tall golden harp, which had been brought from
Monrovia. The light and diaphanous silk of her loose peignoir
floated about her, defining the maturing grace of her figure.
Abruptly she struck a great crashing chord.
Then, with an abandon of ecstasy she plunged into one of those wild
and sea-blown saga-like rhapsodies of the Hungarians, full of the
wind in rigging, the storm in the pines, of shrieking, vast forces
hurtling unchained through a resounding and infinite space, as
though deep down in primeval nature the powers of the world had been
loosed.
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