As she dressed, words to fit her mood came to her in the lines of Alice Meynell’s Renouncement:—
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
I shun the thought that dwells in all delight—
The thought of thee—and in the blue heavens’ height,
And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Once during the afternoon she left her work on an impulse and went into the balcony for a moment.
A fresh, strong wind, smelling of the sea, was blowing, and the sun had burst radiantly from behind the clouds.
Suddenly she had a strong impression of Cecil Scarlett.
She closed her eyes involuntarily, and the wind rushed across her parted lips. It was almost as if he had kissed her—the kiss she had seen in his eyes the night before.
“And in the sweetest passage of a song,” she whispered, as, her day’s work over, she sat facing the platform in the crowded concert hall; and she told herself that she would not give up one of the tormented moments that kept her from him.
While the audience waited for the appearance of the woman whose wonderful voice had never before been heard on African shores, not she, but one of her company—a dark, sombre-eyed woman—came on to the platform with music in her hand.
Dolores trembled. Why was this? Who was this sorrowful woman? Had not she, Dolores, done forever with sorrow?