Alice, unaware both of the melancholy gaze bent upon herself and of the cause thereof, laughed again merrily.
“Poor Mr. Calderwell,” she cried, as she let her fingers slide into soft, introductory chords. “He isn't to blame for not liking what he calls our lost spirits that wail. It's just the way he's made.”
Arkwright vouchsafed no reply. With an abrupt gesture he turned and began to pace the room moodily. At the piano Alice slipped from the chords into the nocturne. She played it straight through, then, with a charm and skill that brought Arkwright's feet to a pause before it was half finished.
“By George, that's great!” he breathed, when the last tone had quivered into silence.
“Yes, isn't it—beautiful?” she murmured.
The room was very quiet, and in semi-darkness. The last rays of a late June sunset had been filling the room with golden light, but it was gone now. Even at the piano by the window, Alice had barely been able to see clearly enough to read the notes of her nocturne.
To Arkwright the air still trembled with the exquisite melody that had but just left her fingers. A quick fire came to his eyes. He forgot everything but that it was Alice there in the half-light by the window—Alice, whom he loved. With a low cry he took a swift step toward her.
“Alice!”
Instantly the girl was on her feet. But it was not toward him that she turned. It was away—resolutely, and with a haste that was strangely like terror.
Alice, too, had forgotten, for just a moment. She had let herself drift into a dream world where there was nothing but the music she was playing and the man she loved. Then the music had stopped, and the man had spoken her name.