"We thought you'd be standing up for Europe," said Val, with a commiserating smile. "Perhaps you'll say all the English don't say militree for military."
Ethan only laughed, and began to talk of Paris. Val found herself listening, not to the words, but to the tones of her cousin's voice, with a sense of rising excitement. Of all kinds of beauty, and of all forms of fascination, that which found the girl most defenceless was harmony in sound. It is doubtful if any eloquence could have reached her through a cracked or raucous voice. But this one, with its vibrant, searching resonance, that yet held no effect of harshness, its pliancy, its command of half-tones, its haunting timbre—this was a voice that, no matter what it said, made music and uttered charms. No one in New Plymouth, no one Val had ever heard before, spoke like this. Yet the accent was frankly Northern, and the diction free from any obtrusive elegance or trace of pedantry. It was the voice that gave the words their quality.
Before to-night Val had judged of speech and matter critically enough, being an even uncomfortably observant young person; but this sound went thrilling along her nerves, setting up so strange a tumult as to shut out sense. After all, he was only talking about France. What did France matter? It might as well be Mars. The important fact was that in the grave, dark face, great wonderful eyes were shining, deeper, gloomier than Emmie's. But his smile made generous amends. It made the heart beat to look at the mobile mouth. And Emmie had dared to kiss him! Something caught in Val's breast as she thought of such boldness. But speaking of boldness, it was to this person she had written for help to get her into opera. How had she dared? Did he have the letter in his pocket? Would he take it out presently, and bring her to confusion before the family?
"This room's exactly the same," he said, suddenly, breaking away from the discussion as to whether Republicanism suited the volatile, spectacle-loving Gaul. "My old friend Daniel Boone's still at his post, I see; and, why, the very silver paper on the walls is the same!"
"No, no," protested Mrs. Gano. "This is new. It hasn't been up more than"—she reflected.
"Nine years ago, this coming May," said John Gano.
"Oh, really!" Ethan passed his slim, brown finger-tips lightly over the wall behind the sofa. "It's just as nice as the old kind was," he said, smiling; "it comes off on your fingers, shiny and metallic."
"Yes," said Val; "just like the dust off a butterfly's wings."
"So it is." He nodded across the room at her. "I remember what fun I used to think it to rub it off—just a little, grandmamma."
"If you remember that," said Mrs. Gano, indulgently, "you remember I always reproved you for it."