“Excellent company. Why?”
“Oh, nothing; only I thought you were neglecting another friend.”
“Why, Mona doesn’t care for me, and Avis does, or, at least, I think she does.”
“Do you mean by this,” inquired the doctor, “that you have transferred to Avis the personal interest you had in Mona?”
“Have you anything to say in disparagement of Avis?” I asked.
“Certainly not. I have a high respect for her. But there is one other plain question I would like to ask you, in view of your rather erratic behavior.”
“Well, what is it? I’m dying to know.”
“It is this. What are you going to do with Margaret?”
“Margaret? Oh, yes, I forgot about Margaret. That is something else I have got to think over.”
That night, as I was falling asleep, the same sweet, familiar music came to me from a distant part of the house. Half-thinking and half-dreaming, I let my mind drift where it would. The sensation received through my ears was so delicious and so satisfying that I wondered why I could not rest in it entirely and not think of the singer; but that was impossible. The notes penetrated from my brain down to the region of my heart. I thought of Margaret, but Margaret could not sing like that. Mona could not, now; no one but Avis. Oh, how I loved her for it! I remembered how nice Margaret was, and how much I had once thought of her; but as for loving her now, with this music of Mars in my ears, why, I simply couldn’t try to do it. At last Margaret, Mona, Avis, all became jumbled up in my chaotic mind, and I thought they were one superb woman, and I loved her. The conceit was worthy the colossal selfishness of a dreamer. The essence of three worlds was mine. The earth, the moon, and Mars had all given me their best. And she could sing. The thought was soothing. I was asleep.