"I play a little," said Rose. She was meeting him joyously. "I sing, too."
"Yes, you sing. I guessed that. Let me hear you."
At once she folded her hands on her knees and sang like a child in heaven, with the art that is simplicity. She sang "Nous n'irons plus au bois," and Osmond felt his heart choking with the melancholy of it. His own voice trembled when he said,—
"You must not sing that often. It's too sad."
"Are we never to be sad?" She asked it in a quick tone full of eager confidence, as if whatever he told her was bound to come to pass.
"Not when we are together."
Premonition chilled him there. Why should they ever be together again? Why was it not possible that this was his one night, the first and the last? So if it was to be the last, he would taste every minute of it, and make it his to keep.
"Well," he said consideringly, "so you are a charmer. You can charm a bird off a bush. That would be one of the first tricks."
She answered, in what he saw was real delight,—
"I can try. Want me to?"