“You like Mr. Barfoot?”
“I think him very pleasant.”
“How delightful to be praised by you, Mrs. Widdowson! Now if any one speaks to you about me, when I have left England, will you find some nice word? Don’t think me foolish. I do so desire the good opinion of my friends. To know that you spoke of me as you did for Mr. Barfoot would give me a whole day of happiness.”
“How enviable! To be so easily made happy.”
“Now let me sing you this song of mine. It isn’t very good; I haven’t composed for years. But—”
He sat down and rattled over the keys. Monica was expecting a lively air and spirited words, as in the songs she had heard at Guernsey; but this composition told of sadness and longing and the burden of a lonely heart. She thought it very beautiful, very touching. Bevis looked round to see the effect it produced upon her, and she could not meet his eyes.
“Quite a new sort of thing for me, Mrs. Widdowson. Does it strike you as so very bad?”
“No—not at all.”
“But you can’t honestly praise it?” He sighed, in dejection. “I meant to give you a copy. I made this one specially for you, and—if you will forgive me—I have taken the liberty of dedicating it to you. Songwriters do that, you know. Of course it is altogether unworthy of your acceptance—”
“No—no—indeed I am very grateful to you, Mr. Bevis. Do give it to me—as you meant to.”