Madeline Holland moved quietly to the doorway, and looked into the drawing-room. No sunset light was there. The long room was shadowy and without color, the roses set about were ghostly white, and their perfume was like a haunting thing. The little figure at the piano was only a shadow, too, with her head thrown back, her profile clear, pale, expressionless.
Mrs. Holland was strangely stirred. She turned toward her husband. The light was too dim for her to see his face clearly, but in the merciful dusk his features had their old romantic quality. He was staring straight before him, motionless as a statue. She stretched out her hand to touch his arm, to recall him from his distant world to herself, when just at that moment he moved abruptly, pressed the switch, and filled the room with light from the chandelier in the ceiling.
The spell was broken. The girl spun around on the stool, sprang up, and came toward Madeline.
“Oh, Mrs. Hol-land!” she cried in her drawling little voice. “I’m afraid I bothered you!”
Yes, the spell was broken now. There was no music in the big, bright room. The rapt young St. Cecilia was only Stella’s daughter, vain, insincere, coquettish.
“Not at all,” said Madeline.
Her tone might have warned the most impervious, but Stella’s daughter was not in the habit of noticing warnings. Instead, she looked at Frank, smiling up into his face; and Mrs. Holland saw his hand go up to his mustache.
“Ask Miss Johnson to play something else for you, Frank,” she suggested.
He did, and she consented archly. She went back to the piano, and he sat down near her.
“Fine technique!” he observed gravely.