When it came time to light the lamps Sylvia went up into her boudoir. She liberated the imprisoned currents up in the little mediæval lanterns. She drew the blinds so that she should feel quite alone. She had put on one of the dresses which made her look specially slim and soft and childlike. She knew the garment became her, because it always brought a tender expression to Harboro’s eyes.
And then she sat down and waited.
At eight o’clock Runyon came. So faint was his summons at the door that it might have been a lost bird fluttering in the dark. But Sylvia heard it. She descended and opened the door for him. In the dimly lighted hall she whispered: “Are you sure nobody saw you come?”
He took both her hands into his and replied: “Nobody!”
They mounted the steps like two children, playing a slightly hazardous game. “The cat’s away,” she said, her eyes beaming with joy.
He did not respond in words but his eyes completed the old saying.
They went up into the boudoir, and he put away his coat and hat.
They tried to talk, each seeking to create the impression that what was being said was quite important. But neither heard what the other said. They were like people talking in a storm or in a house that is burning down.
He took his place at the piano after a while. It seemed that he had promised to sing for her—for her alone. He glanced apprehensively toward the windows, as if to estimate the distance which separated him from the highway. It was no part of their plan that he should be heard singing in Sylvia’s room by casual passers-by on the Quemado Road.
He touched the keys lightly and when he sang his voice seemed scarcely to carry across the room. There was a rapid passage on the keyboard, like the patter of a pony’s hoofs in the distance, and then the words came: