It was only at those times that I knew—actually knew!—how sad she was, to the point of heartbreak. By day, when we worked or talked together, her manner was charmingly bright. She was interested in my affairs, and her quiet, delicious sense of humour was one of her greatest attractions for me. But at the piano, before the lights were on, the girl was at the mercy of her secret, whatever it might be. It came like a ghost, and stared her in the eyes. It said to her: "You can't shut me out. It is to me you sing. I make you sing!"
To hear that "twilight voice" of hers, half crooning, half chanting, those passion-flower songs of Laurence Hope's, or "Omar," would have waked a soul in a stone image!
Good heavens! how could Robert Lorillard have sent her away? How, on the contrary, could he have helped wanting this noble, brave, sweet creature to warm his life for ever?
That's what I asked myself over and over again. And on top of that question another. What if—he hadn't helped it?
It was one evening, while she improvised a queer little "song of sleep" for me that this thought came. It burst like a bombshell in my brain; and the reason it hadn't burst before was because my mind always pictured June and Robert together.
I was lying deep among cushions on a sofa, and involuntarily I started up.
Joyce broke off her song in the midst.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said; "only—it just popped into my head that I'd forgotten to telephone for—for a car to-morrow."
"For a car?" Joyce echoed. "How stupid of me, if you mentioned it! I can't remember——"