"Why, both families object, naturally," said the companion of his joys and sorrows.
VIII
It was the last evening before his departure, and Lady Dorothy had played for him for an hour; played little melodies from La Bohème, lesser gems from Chu Chin Chow, and twice had explored the delightful memories of Gilbert and Sullivan. Once he sang very softly to her accompaniment, and when they finished she turned abruptly to him.
"You have a voice," she said.
"You play beautifully," he answered.
"It is easy to play when an artist is listening."
"Have you found that, too?"
She turned to the piano and softly fingered the opening strains of Rudolpho's aria in the first act of La Bohème.
"It is just a matter of personality," he said softly. "One woman chokes a man's artistry; another reveals the heights which are in his soul. I suppose it is the same with men?"
She played on in silence for a few moments, then murmured, "What happened to the statue when it came to life?"