"They have come," Mrs. Grahame repeated. "Some of them, that is. Oh, things can happen here as well as in New York, mademoiselle! They came yesterday,—Mrs. Merryweather and Kitty and—"
"And you never told me!" cried Hildegarde. "And you have let me talk on and on for three,—four hours,—oh, Mrs. Grahame!"
"You never asked me," replied that lady, demurely. "You had a great deal to tell, and I wanted very much to hear it; perhaps, too, I did not want to have your mind distracted until I had had my turn. Mrs. Merryweather is looking very well."
"Oh, the dear!" cried Hildegarde. "Oh, Mammina, do you think I might go over? Do you think it is too late? It is only half-past eight. Don't you think I might run over now?"
"Hark!" said Mrs. Grahame, raising her hand. "What is that?"
Hildegarde, in full tide of excitement, checked herself, and listened. Under the window some unseen hand swept the strings of a guitar, lightly, yet firmly; and next moment a voice broke out, singing the old air of "Gentle Zitella."
"Under thy window,
Maiden, I sing,
Though the night's chilly
For this kind of thing.
Weather is merry,
Hearts too are light;
Speak to thy Jerry,
Hilda the Bright!"
Hildegarde threw up the sash.
"Come in, Gerald!" she cried. "Oh, you dear boy, I am so glad to see you—hear you, rather! come in, quick!"
She shut the window hastily.