"Sing that, Padre?" said Nora. "Why, there are no words to it that I

know."

"Words? Peste! Who cares for words no one really ever understands? It is

the voice, my child. Go on, or I shall make you do some frightful

penance."

Nora saw that further opposition would be useless. After all, it would be

better to sing. She would not be compelled to look at this man she so

despised. For a moment her tones were not quite clear; but Celeste

increased the volume of sound warningly, and as this required more force

on Nora's part, the little cross-current was passed without mishap. It was

mere pastime for her to follow these wonderful melodies. She had no words

to recall so that her voice was free to do with as she elected. There were

bars absolutely impossible to follow, note for note, but she got around

this difficulty by taking the key and holding it strongly and evenly. In

ordinary times Nora never refused to sing for her guests, if she happened

to be in voice. There was none of that conceited arrogance behind which

most of the vocal celebrities hide themselves. At the beginning she had

intended to sing badly; but as the music proceeded, she sang as she had

not sung in weeks. To fill this man's soul with a hunger for the sound of

her voice, to pour into his heart a fresh knowledge of what he had lost

forever and forever!

Courtlandt sat on the divan beside Harrigan who, with that friendly spirit

which he observed toward all whom he liked, whether of long or short

acquaintance, had thrown his arm across Courtlandt's shoulder. The younger

man understood all that lay behind the simple gesture, and he was secretly

pleased.

But Mrs. Harrigan was not. She was openly displeased, and in vain she

tried to catch the eye of her wayward lord. A man he had known but

twenty-four hours, and to greet him with such coarse familiarity!

Celeste was not wholly unmerciful. She did not finish the suite, but

turned from the keys after the final chords of Morning Mood.

"Thank you!" said Nora.

"Do not stop," begged Courtlandt.

Nora looked directly into his eyes as she replied: "One's voice can not go

on forever, and mine is not at all strong."

And thus, without having originally the least intent to do so, they broke

the mutual contract on which they had separately and secretly agreed:

never to speak directly to each other. Nora was first to realize what she

had done, and she was furiously angry with herself. She left the piano.

As if her mind had opened suddenly like a book, Courtlandt sprang from the

divan and reached for the fat ball of lace-hemming. He sat down in Nora's

chair and nodded significantly to the Barone, who blushed. To hold the

delicate material for Nora's unwinding was a privilege of the gods, but to

hold it for this man for whom he held a dim feeling of antagonism was

altogether a different matter.




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