“All this long while! A few hours! What a testimony to one’s worth!” he said, as lightly as before, but his eyes, as they rested on Doris’ pensive face, were grave and intent. “I have been wandering in the woods, listening to the birds.”
“While we have been dying to listen to you,” said Lady Despard, with mock reproach. “We have missed you terribly, haven’t we, Doris?”
“Miss Marlowe is halting between truth and politeness,” he said, as Doris remained silent. “I will spare her a reply.”
“We’ve had no music to speak of,” said Lady Despard. “Won’t you sing us something now? Shall we go into the house?”
“No, no,” he said, almost abruptly. “Who would exchange this”—and he waved his hand—“for four walls? What shall I sing to you? Let me think.”
He thought for a moment, then he began to sing.
Doris never heard his voice, even in the crowded saloon, without feeling a thrill run through her, but to-night, although he sang in so low a tone that it seemed scarcely more than a whisper, the melody stirred her to her depths, and brought the tears to her eyes.
“That is beautiful,” said Lady Despard, with a little sigh. “We won’t spoil it by asking for another. Come, Doris, dear. Will you come in, Mr. Levant?”
“No, thanks,” he said, slowly. “I’ll say good-night now.”
He did not offer to shake hands, and the two ladies left him and went toward the house. As they were ascending the steps, Lady Despard stopped, and uttered an exclamation: