While they were making the arrangements, Algy came up in his blandest manner.
“Now Marchesa—might we hope for a song?”
“No—I don't sing any more,” came the slow, contralto reply.
“Oh, but you can't mean you say that deliberately—”
“Yes, quite deliberately—” She threw away her cigarette and opened her little gold case to take another.
“But what can have brought you to such a disastrous decision?”
“I can't say,” she replied, with a little laugh. “The war, probably.”
“Oh, but don't let the war deprive us of this, as of everything else.”
“Can't be helped,” she said. “I have no choice in the matter. The bird has flown—” She spoke with a certain heavy languor.
“You mean the bird of your voice? Oh, but that is quite impossible. One can hear it calling out of the leaves every time you speak.”