Directly after the sweet tones ceased, and the tune was commenced again in chorus by the singing class, the modest violet now becoming identified with the strident voice of Miss Feelier Potts who absolutely yelled.
The vicar went straight out, turning to the left as he reached the path instead of to the right, for he could not visit the girls’ school then; and he walked home, telling himself that the disenchantment was complete—there was that open shutter—his strange feelings for Hazel Thorne were at an end—and he paced his study all the evening, his bedroom half the night, with the sweet air and words of that simple school song repeating themselves for ever in his ears.
“Why, Henry, what is the matter?” cried Beatrice Lambent the next morning, as she came upon her brother in the dining-room, waiting for her to make his coffee.
“Matter?” he said, flushing scarlet like a girl. “Matter?”
“Yes! you singing? I never heard you sing before in your life.”
“Was I—was I singing?” he said huskily.
“Yes, that stupid, hackneyed violet song, that the children shriek at the schools.”
“Was I? Dear me, how strange! To be sure—yes. The children were singing it while I was talking to Mr Chute yesterday. We could hear it through the partition.”