“Lightly I speed while hope is high
And youth beguiles the race
I follow—follow still—but I
Shall never see his face.”
Grant had risen and had come over to her, his eyes blazing.
“You have never sung that to Packy, have you? Joy——”
“No—I haven’t ever sung it to anybody.”
“Somehow—I couldn’t have borne it, if you had, Joy——”
A cool voice from the doorway smote in upon their throbbing hearts. “Dear me! Have you two not gone to the dance yet?”
Mrs. Grey came forward into the room, her chill eyes dwelling first on Grant, then upon Joy, lingering on her face where the mixed colours strove for supremacy. “It was a great pity Mr. Grey and I were delayed in town.” She turned to Joy. “So you’re a—singer! I rather thought you—expressed yourself in some way.” Her eyes still rested with emphasis upon Joy’s colour; it was almost as if she wished Grant to follow her gaze and see what she saw. But Grant was not looking at Joy with his mother’s eyes. “What are you going to do with your voice?”