“What is that?” asked Levice, looking curiously at his nephew, who, turning on his music-chair, took up his cigar again.
“That,” he replied, flecking an ash from his coat lapel, “has no name that I know of; some people call it ‘The Soul.’”
A pained sensation shot through Ruth at his words, for he had plainly been improvising, and he must have felt what he had played.
“Here, Ruth, sing this,” he continued, turning round and picking up a sheet of music.
“What?” she asked without moving.
“‘The bugle;’ I like it.”
Kemp looked at her expectantly. He said he had not known she sang; but since she did, he was sure her voice was contralto.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because your face is contralto.”
She turned from his eyes as if they hurt her, and walked over to Louis’s side.