She began to sing the same little Roumanian song that he remembered on their last evening in the Lenox house, and his spirits, lifted for a moment by her smile, went down again.
“Into the mist I gazed and fear came on me,
Then said the mist, ‘I weep for the lost sun.’”
She sang passionately and he could have cried aloud. It was true then that she was grieving for Dick.
“The music is uncanny, isn’t it?” she said, as she ended and found him near her. “How does it make you feel?”
“If I should find an image for my feelings just at present, you would scorn me for my base material thoughts.”
“Find it,” she commanded.
“I think I feel like a mince-pie—a maddening jumble of things delicious and indigestible.”
She laughed and grew friendly. This, he thought, is, after all, her permanent mood; but before he could take advantage of it another caller, Mr. Early, appeared; and again she basely deserted Norris to the mercies of her father and mother, and devoted herself to the evident beatification of the apostle of the new in art.