"Will you play some of the 'Garden' now?" she asked. "I think I should like it. I'm just the least bit blue."
Andrew hesitated, but the words he wanted would not come. He turned back to the piano, fingered the music doubtfully for a moment, and then began to play. There was no need to voice the words. They both knew them well, and they fitted, as, somehow, the verse of Omar has a knack of doing.
"Strange, is it not, that of the myriads who
Before us passed the Door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road
Which to discover we must travel too."
"I'm glad I know you," he broke in impulsively, with his fingers on the keys. "You're a good friend."
Margery made no reply.
"My grandfather, who's the best old chap in all the world," continued Andrew, playing the following crescendo softly, "is the only other person of whom I can feel that as you make me feel it. He always calls me 'Andy.' I rather like that silly little name. I wonder—"
He swung round, facing her.
"I think we're both of us a trifle homesick, Miss Palffy. I wonder if you'd mind—calling me—that?"
He looked down for a second, and in that second Margery Palffy moistened her lips. When she spoke, it seemed to her that her voice sounded harsh and dry.
"I shall be very glad, if you wish it—Andy."