| "'When you and I go down the love path together, |
| Birds shall be singing and the day so long....'" |
sang Sally, in her clear voice, and made everybody arch their brows in surprise.
| "'Your heart mine, and mine in your keeping, |
| List while I sing to you love's tender song. |
| Ah, love, have done with your repining, |
| See how the day is clear; |
| Heart of my heart, |
| On your fond heart reclining |
| Dear, oh my Dear....'" |
She played with care, and struck no false notes. She sang her best. Her voice was the best voice of the afternoon, a mezzo-soprano, but with clear upper register and a fulness that suggested training. It was not a great performance, but it thrilled the others. Sally had triumphed. With one accord the girls clapped.
"My best worker," said Miss Summers, rubbing her cold nose and turning to the accompanist of the afternoon.
"A clever little girl," agreed her neighbour.
But Gaga was stupefied. He had remained in the chair next to Sally's, and when she resumed her place his mouth was still open with delight and admiration. Again he leaned forward, and she met his melting chocolate eyes.
"That was beautiful," he said, in a low tone of commendation. "Beautiful!"
"Glad you liked it," she said, almost brusquely. Instinctively she shot a glance in Rose's direction. Rose, her cheeks mantling, was observing the two with interest. Sally's brain clicked an impression, and she listened to a stammering from Gaga which aroused her contempt. "He's hardly a man at all," she thought. "He's soppy. Rose can have him. I wish her joy of him. She can have him—and twenty like him, if she wants.... I don't know so much about that. Why should she? She's stuck up. Why shouldn't I have some fun, if I want to? It's nothing to do with Rose Anstey what I do, and what Gaga does...."
Her demand was unanswerable, because it was addressed to one who did not habitually withdraw herself lest she should give pain to others. If Rose was jealous, that showed the sort of cat she was. And in any case, who was Rose? Sally was bright in her responses to the soft voice, so that Gaga was pleased; but the girls could all see that her manner was cool, and not the flustered eagerness of a beggar. Rose's neighbour whispered. When the evening was over and Gaga and his mother had gone, and the girls had all piled into two railway compartments, somebody, whose voice was unrecognisable in the darkness, called from the other carriage: