Having brushed him aside she went on to me. The main fact imparted, her exultation burst forth in a crowding rush of words:
“It wasn’t my voice—but that’s better, he says it’s the long rest—it was the other thing—the temperament, the soul. It’s got into me. I knew it myself as soon as I began to sing. I felt as if something that bound me was gone—ropes and chains broken and thrown away. It was so much easier. Before I was always making efforts, listening to what they told me, trying to work it out with my head. And to-day! Oh, Evie, I knew it, I felt it—something outside myself that poured into me and carried me along. I could just let myself go and be wonderful—wonderful—wonderful!”
She threw out her arms as if to illustrate the extent of her wonderfulness, wide as she could stretch, then brought her hands together on her bosom, and, with half-shut eyes, stood rapt in ravished memory.
We gazed mutely at her as if she were some remarkable spectacle upon which we had unexpectedly chanced.
“I sang and sang,” she said softly, “and each time it was better. Vignorol wouldn’t let me go.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He kissed me,” she murmured dreamily.
Roger in his corner moved and then was still.
“But what did he suggest about you? What did he want you to do?”
My mouth was dry. Sitting on the edge of the sofa I clutched the sides of it as if it was a frail bark and I was floating in it over perilous seas.