Then in a last burst of gloriously insane protestation:
“Si per te muojo e vado in Paradiso,
Non c’entro se non vedo il tuo bel viso!”
And that yearning, wordless passion-fraught cry wherein supreme longing rushed beyond the bounds of speech.
A rumbling mutter of the harp-strings. And silence.
“The sublimated howl of a back-fence tom-cat!” muttered Caine, to himself; the garish brain-picture fading.
A momentary, tense hush fell over the audience as the final chords trailed off into nothingness. Then, before the utter stillness could be broken by the burst of ensuing applause, another sound—hideously distinct, vibrant, long-drawn,—cut raggedly through the breathless quiet. The sound of a full-lunged, healthy snore.
Caleb Conover was sleeping like a child.
CHAPTER XIII
MOONLIGHT AND MISTAKES
The musicale was over. The first floor of the Standish house looked as though a devastating army had camped there. Caine, who had lingered for a goodnight word with Letty, glanced over the empty music room.