“Might it not better be I than any one?” he demanded, capturing her hand again.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied, considering it impersonally. “You’re young.”
“Then it is ‘yes’?” ardently.
She pulled her hand away and came out of her abstraction.
“Good gracious, no!” bluntly. “Not so fast, cousin. I am much too sleepy to decide anything so important to-night. Besides, to-night I am in love with the song of the fiddle. And you are not that song!” She sighed.
“A much more substantial lover,” he answered laughingly.
“Stupid thing!” she thought. “I suppose you think your ‘substantial’ person has more power to stir me than the echoes of Tschaikowsky!”
“And when?” he began.
“Do say good-night, like a good fellow. I am so tired. I want to go to bed at once—and sleep forever.” She walked out to the verandah, compelling him to follow. “I’ll think you over.”
“I hope you’ll think kindly,” he said, with a softness in his voice and his eyes that he had not shown her before. But Mabel could have told her how one woman, at least, yearned to him because of that note in his gamut, for which he deserved as little credit as for the shape of his nose.