So from moment to moment he would dispose of the Idea; but then there was the Look. That had been unmistakable. There was a chamber in Dunham's heart where that memory picture hung, and it seemed to him impertinence to open the door. As often as the recollection returned to him he recoiled from it. That look had been a theft from Sylvia, not a gift; but she had given him the potion at last. Again John laughed at himself for believing in her intention. Again he scowled at the wall because she had fulfilled it.
At last he shook himself together. An unacknowledged longing possessed him to see how she would carry herself now. He caught up the book he had come for, and went downstairs to the piazza. Sylvia had vanished. Disappointed, he went back into the house. Straying to the piano, he sat down and began to play a Chopin prelude. It was John's one and only instrumental achievement, learned by ear, and dug out of the ivories, as one might say, by long hours of laborious search for its harmonies.
Edna glided into the room. "If you don't mind, John," she said, "this is Miss Lacey's nap-time."
He dropped his hands. "Certainly I won't mind, if you'll produce Miss Sylvia. She's slipperier than a drop of quicksilver."
Edna stiffened slightly. "Perhaps she has gone to sleep, too."
"Well, you haven't, anyway. Come! I hate those carpenters with a virulence that grows worse every hour."
The young hostess laughed. "I've only to stay with them a little while longer. Come with me. They're nearly through, and then we'll get Sylvia and go off somewhere."
John followed lazily to mysterious regions at the back of the cottage. Sylvia, listening at the head of the stairs, heard them go. It was her opportunity.
CHAPTER XXIX