"You might apply your theory here and now. Go and sing to me, not a new song, but one of the old favorites."
Obediently he crossed the room to the piano where he sat for an hour, now singing, now stopping to comment on a song or to relate some of his experiences of the past two months. Later that night, when Miss Gannion was thinking over the talk of the evening, it suddenly occurred to her that he had made no reference at all to the summer. At length he rose to return to the fire.
"No," she objected. "There is one song still lacking. You've not sung The Rosary yet."
His stride across the room never hesitated, although duller ears than his own could not have mistaken the wish in her voice.
"I have worn out The Rosary," he said briefly. "I shall have to let it rest for a while."
"I am sorry. I loved it."
He laughed mirthlessly.
"It is the weakest kind of sentimentality, Miss Gannion. The song itself amounts to very little; it is merely a question of the key."
"I am sorry," she repeated, still a little sadly. "I have cared a good deal for the song."
Thayer made no answer, and she sat looking up at him with a steady wishfulness which made him uneasy. Her next words, though chosen by chance, increased his uneasiness.