Wherein lay the connection? He could not say, save that it had something to do with her black hair; something with the vagueness of her outline in the shadows; something with the solemnity of that common human love which gropes for companionship with that common higher love. Emotions, like religions, gain something in power by remaining part mystery.
“Your father,” Barnes announced, “wishes you to play for him.”
She rose at once.
“Very well,” she answered.
“And I may listen, too?” he asked.
“If you wish,” she replied without embarrassment, “the things he likes are simple.”
“The things I like are simple,” he answered.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Aunt Philomela, a note of fear in her voice. “They say it’s a bad sign when the sick call for music.”
“I should say it was a good sign,” said Barnes. “It proves them to be at peace.”
“But isn’t that a bad sign?”