People forgot they were performing a stilted duty at a school function—they were frankly delighted and appreciative. Joan rose to the homage and, at such moments, she was beautiful with a beauty that did not depend upon feature or colouring.
But it was when she sang on Commencement Day that she achieved her triumph.
Martin was watching Doris closely. She had had no return of her March illness; she never spoke of it, nor did he, but for that very reason Martin kept a more rigid guard upon any excitement. There was that in Doris's face which, to his trained eye, was significant. It was as if she had been touched by a passing frost. She had not withered, but she was changed. The time of blight might be soon or distant, but the frost had fallen on the woman's life.
It was when Joan had finished her song that Martin took Doris from the hall.
It happened this way:
The flower-banked platform was empty until the accompanist—it was a young professor, this time, not Nancy—came on.
The audience waited politely; the rows of girlish faces were turned expectantly, and then Joan entered!
Without a trace of self-consciousness she looked at her friends—they were all her friends—with that sweet confidence and understanding of the true artist. The dainty loose gown covered any angle that might have proved unlovely, and Joan was at one of her rarely beautiful moments.
She stood at ease while the first notes were played—she appeared suddenly detached, and then she sang.
It was an old English ballad, quaint and rollicking: