“You sing beautifully,” replied Emily. She wished to ask her where she had got the song, but felt that it would be prying.
“Mamma taught it me the last time she was being taken ill. It was hard to learn because I do not speak French. I had to go over it three times. She said I wasn’t to sing it to uncle. But I thought you might like it.”
“No, I shouldn’t sing it to uncle, if I were you,” said Emily.
Just then the child rose and her face lighted up. Emily followed her glance and saw Stilson at the turn of the path, standing like a statue. He was looking not at the child, but at her. The child ran toward him and he put his hand at her neck and drew her close to him.
“Why, how d’ye do, Mr. Stilson,” said Emily, cordially. “This is the first time I’ve seen you since I was leaving for Paris. As soon as I came back I asked for you, but you were on vacation. And I thought you were still away.”
Stilson advanced reluctantly, a queer light in his keen, dark-gray eyes. He shook hands and seated himself. Mary occupied the vacant space on the bench between him and Emily, spreading out her skirts carefully so that they should not be mussed. “I am still idling,” said Stilson. “I hate hotels and I loathe mosquitoes. Besides, I think if I ever got beyond the walls of this prison I’d run away and never return.”
“So you too grow tired of your work?” said Emily. “Yet you are editor-in-chief now, and— Oh, I should think it would be fascinating.”
“It would have been a few years ago. But everything comes late. One has worked so hard for it that one is too exhausted to enjoy it. And it means work and care—always more and more work and care. But, pardon me. I’m in one of my depressed moods. And I didn’t expect any one—you—to surprise me in it.”
Emily looked at him, her eyes giving, and demanding, sympathy. “I often wish that life would offer something worth having, not as a free gift—I shouldn’t ask that, and not at a bargain even, but just at a fair price.”
“I’m surprised to find such parsimony in one so young—it’s unnatural.” Stilson’s expression and tone were good-humoured cynicism. “Why, at your age, with your wealth—youth is always rich—you ought never to look at or think of price marks.”