"When Harrowby first met me," she said, her fingers on the keys, "I was singing Just a Little. My first dear song—ah, Mr. Minot, I was happy then."
In another minute she began to sing—softly—a plaintive little love-song, and in spite of himself Minot felt his heart beat faster.
"How it brings back the old days," she whispered. "The lights, and the friendly faces—Harrowby in the stalls. And the little suppers after the show—"
She leaned forward and sang at Minot as she had sung at Harrowby five years before:
"You could love me just a little—if you tried—
You could feel your heart go pit-a-pat inside—"
Really, she had a way with her!
"Dear, it's easy if you try;
Cross your heart and hope to die—
Don't you love me just a little—now?"
That baby stare in all its pathos, all its appealing helplessness, was focused full on Minot. He gripped the arms of his chair. Gabrielle Rose saw. Had she made another captive? So it seemed. She felt very kindly toward the world.
"Promise." Minot leaned over. His voice was hoarse. "You'll meet me here at four. Quite aside from my errand—quite aside from everything—I want to see you again."
"Do you really?" She continued to hum beneath her breath. "Very well—here at four."