"Perhaps she is tired of his voice—not very loud."
Mrs. Tracy threw a lace scarf over her head and went out to the garden. The long aisles under the trees were flooded with moonlight, the air was perfumed with the fragrance of the many flowers; but there was no Dorothy. She entered the house by another door, and, going softly up the great stairway, turned towards Dorothy's rooms at the south end of the long villa. Here a light was visible, coming under the door of the sitting-room; the aunt did not lift the latch, she stood outside listening. Yes, Dorothy was there, and she was singing to herself in a low tone, playing the accompaniment with the soft pedal down:
| "Through the long days, the long days and the years, |
| What will my loved one be, |
| Parted from me, parted from me, |
| Through the long days and years?" |
"She is up there singing; singing all alone," reported the aunt, when she came back to the boudoir down-stairs.
"I suppose you like that better than not alone?" suggested Mrs. North.
Waddy came to Belmonte five times without success. Then he left Florence.
Dorothy did not stroll in the garden with Owen Charrington. If her mother and aunt were outside when he came, she remained with them there; but if they were in the drawing-room or the boudoir, she immediately led her guest within; then she sat looking at him while he talked. Charrington talked well; all he said was amusing. Dorothy listened and laughed. If he paused, she urged him on again. This urgency of hers became so apparent that at last it embarrassed him. To carry it off he attacked her:
"You force me to chatter, Mrs. Mackenzie—to chatter like a parrot!"
"Yes," answered Dorothy, "you must talk; you must talk all the time."
"'All the time'—awfully funny Americanism!"